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TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

BURKE'S  CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES 

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MACAULAY'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON 

MILTON'S  L'ALLEGRO,  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

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WASHINGTON'S   FAREWELL  ADDRESS 

WEBSTER'S  FIRST  BUNKER  HILL  ORATION 


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« •  •  • 


2Dl)e  Htbersitie  ^Literature  ^erie0 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES 

THE  SPEECH  BY   EDMUND  BUKKE 


EDITED  BY 

EGBERT  ANDERSEN 

MASTER  OP  ENGLISH  IN  THE  EPISCOPAL   ACADEMY,   PHILADBLPHIA 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

Boston :  4  Park  Street ;  New  York :  85  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  S78-388  Wabash  Avenue 

(52rbc  lUincrsitJc  press  CambuiDoe 


Copyright,  1896, 
By  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


I  •    »   •  •  • 


PEEFACE. 

The  importance  attaching  to  the  study  of  the  Speech  on 
Conciliation  is  indicated  by  the  fact  that  the  Committee 
have  assigned  it  for  study  in  the  years  1897-1908. 

In  this  edition,  the  editor,  in  addition  to  preparing  the 
notes  explanatory  of  the  text,  has  aimed  at  exhibiting  its 
logical  form  and  structure.  Such  a  plan  of  editing  and 
of  study  gives  an  excellent  opportunity  of  impressing,  by 
the  force  of  Burke's  example,  some  of  the  fundamental 
processes  of  composition  —  and  it  is  to  be  remembered 
that  the  most  persistent  demand  which  the  colleges  are  at 
present  making  of  the  teacher  of  English  is  the  demand  for 
skill  in  this  art  —  for  '*  clearness  and  accuracy  of  expreSv 
sion."  The  Speech  is  valuable  as  a  model :  it  is  commonly 
accepted  as  a  masterpiece :  it  is  constructed  on  such  a 
definite,  orderly  plan ;  its  various  parts  are  so  nicely  articu- 
lated; it  is,  indeed,  such  a  finely  developed  organism, — 
that  the  study  of  its  details  cannot  fail  to  impress  the  pupil 
with  the  importance  of  the  rhetorical  principles  upon  which 
it  is  constructed.  What  claimed  Burke's  attention  in  the 
construction  of  his  work  will  impress  the  pupil  in  the  con- 
struction of  his  own. 

The  method  of  study  proposed  is  indicated  on  pages  ix— 
xiv  —  i.  e.f  in  the  careful  reading  of  groups  of  paragraphs 
as  they  express  successive  units  of  thought ;  in  the  construc- 
tion of  the  skeleton  analysis ;  in  the  study  of  appropriate 
rhetorical  notes,  together  with  such  of  the  exercises  as  the 
teacher  finds  time  for.  The  teacher  will  see  on  examina- 
tion that  some  of  the  work  appointed  may  be  omitted ;  but, 
according  to  the  idea  and  purpose  of  the  editor,  the  con- 
struction of  the  skele^:on  outline  is  an  essential.     It  is  not 


41.1433 


iv  PREFACE. 

sufficient  for  the  pupil  to  attempt  to  follow  the  outline 
mentally,  without  writing  it  out.  To  do  that  much  is,  so 
far,  good ;  but  to  construct  it  in  detail,  preserving  the  rela- 
tive rank  of  the  thought  in  the  manner  indicated,  will  force 
the  pupil,  as  he  sees  it  growing  under  his  hand,  to  appre- 
hend the  truth  that  this  great  literary  work  is  wrought  out 
in  accordance  with  steady,  consistent  purpose,  with  definite 
plan  and  method,  —  a  truth  that  will  appear  more  clearly  in 
the  carefully  constructed  analysis  than  it  can  possibly  ap 
pear  from  a  mere  reading  of  the  Speech,  however  careful. 
Let  the  pupil  apprehend  that  truth  and  he  will  have  made 
a  great,  practical  gain.  Purpose,  plan,  method,  are  the 
foundations  of  all  good  composition. 

With  the  reading  of  the  Speech,  and  the  construction  of 
the  analysis,  there  should  go  as  much  synthetic  work  — 
composition  —  as  possible.  The  study  of  Burke's  theme  ; 
of  his  paragraph  structure  ;  of  his  outline,  or  plan,  will 
naturally  suggest  that  the  pupil  be  given  practice  in  finding 
definite  themes  under  general  subjects ;  in  writing  para- 
graphs upon  narrowly  limited  themes  ;  in  making  skeleton 
outlines  of  compositions  on  these  themes.  The  importance 
of  this  work  cannot  be  overrated :  it  is  in  the  highest  de- 
gree formative :  to  require  it  of  the  pupil  is  to  help  him  to 
value  and  attain  the  power  of  direct  and  definite  thought. 
Help  in  this  work  is  given  occasionally  at  the  foot  of  the 
page,  where,  under  the  general  term  Exercise,  the  editor  has 
grouped  a  variety  of  suggestions,  which  may,  according  to 
the  teacher's  opportunity,  prove  valuable.  It  is  well  to 
have  the  exercises,  as  far  as  possible,  written,  so  as  to  guard 
against  the  looseness  that  sometimes  occurs  in  oral  recita- 
tions. Such  constructive  work  may,  of  course,  take  the 
place  of  the  ordinary  class  compositions.  The  exercises 
are  intended  to  be  suggestive  only :  the  teacher  who  is  in 
sympathy  with  the  purpose  of  the  present  study  may  make 
his  own  exercises. 

The  Episcopal  Academy,  PnHiADBLPHiA,  June  12, 1896. 


EDMUND  BURKE. 

BIOGKAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

Edmund  Burke  was  born  in  Dublin,  probably  in  Jan« 
uary,  1729,  although  the  precise  date  is  in  question.  At 
fifteen  he  entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  where  he  re- 
mained five  years,  and  in  1750  went  to  London  to  study 
law,  —  the  profession  for  which  his  father,  an  attorney,  had 
destined  him.  Finding  the  law  dry  and  irksome,  he  aban- 
doned its  pursuit,  and  was  compelled,  by  the  withdrawal 
of  his  father's  allowance,  to  devote  himself  to  literature 
and  politics.  His  two  works,  "  A  Vindication  of  Natural 
Society  "  and  "  A  Philosophical  Inquiry  into  the  Origin  of 
our  Ideas  on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful,"  soon  gained  him 
marked  distinction  as  a  writer.  In  1765  he  was  elected  to 
Parliament,  holding  his  seat  throughout  the  exciting  and 
critical  times  that  culminated  in  the  American  Revolution 
and  the  recognition  of  American  independence.  From 
1765  till  1794,  when  he  retired  from  Parliament,  his  ex- 
traordinary genius  and  political  wisdom  made  him  one  of 
the  most  conspicuous  of  the  able  men  with  whom  he  was 
associated.     He  died  at  Beaconsfield,  England,  July  9, 1797. 

His  appointment  as  private  secretary  to  Lord  Rock- 
ingham, and  his  election  to  Parliament  a  few  months 
after,  brought  him  into  immediate  touch  with  the  mightiest 
problems  of  the  day.  He  became  the  active  opponent  of 
the  king's  policy,  which  was  to  concentrate  all  power  in 
the  king's  hands ;  the  ministers  were  to  be  nominees  of  the 
court,  carrying  out  his  plans  and  answerable  to  him  alone. 
Backed  up  by  Parliament,  the  king  had  determined  to 
force  America  into  submission.  They  contended,  inasmuch 
as  English  law  was  supreme  in  the  colonies  as  well  as  in 


▼i  EDMUND  BURKE. 

England  itself,  that  Parliament  had  a  right  to  tax  America. 
Establishing  themselves  in  the  notion  of  their  right,  they 
proceeded  to  enforce  the  right  by  the  Stamp  Act  and  other 
acts  of  taxation,  regardless  of  the  claims  and  petitions  of 
the  colonies.  America  could  be  kept  in  subjection  only  by 
the  employment  of  an  army.  To  silence  the  demand  for 
constitutional  rights  by  the  employment  of  the  military  was, 
in  Burke's  judgment,  a  most  serious  menace  to  the  cause  of 
liberty  in  England  itself.  Since  the  struggle  between  Amer- 
ica and  Parliament  was  on  a  demand  for  a  constitutional 
right,  the  victory  of  the  army  over  the  Americans  might  in 
the  end  be  the  downfall  of  liberty  in  England  itself.  To 
him  this  was  a  real  fear:  the  idea  runs  through  several 
of  his  speeches  and  writings.  His  efforts,  however,  were 
unavailing,  —  king  and  Parliament  persisted.  Fortunately 
for  England,  the  colonies  were  successful,  and  the  royal 
policy  of  coercing  the  people  in  their  demand  for  a  consti- 
tutional right  received  its  death-blow. 

Shortly  after  the  conclusion  of  the  American  Revolution, 
Burke  was  stirred  up  by  what  he  believed  to  be  the  cruel 
and  unjust  policy  of  Warren  Hastings  in  India,  and  by  the 
fact  that  he  believed  the  East  India  Company  to  be  exert- 
ing a  corrupt  influence  among  members  of  Parliament. 
Acting  upon  this  belief,  he  made  probably  the  most  strenu- 
ous effort  of  his  life,  —  the  impeachment  of  Hastings.  Dur- 
ing the  proceedings  —  which  lasted  for  fourteen  years  — 
Burke  labored  incessantly.  At  the  end  of  this  period 
Hastings  was  acquitted,  the  question  of  his  guilt  being 
viewed  in  different  lights.  The  probability  is  that  the  pol= 
icy  of  the  East  India  Company  was  blamable  for  much 
that  was  charged  upon  Hastings.  "  Never,"  says  Lord 
John  Russell,  ^'  has  the  great  object  of  punishment  —  the 
prevention  of  crime  —  been  attained  more  completely  than 
by  this  trial.  Hastings  was  acquitted,  but  tyranny,  deceit, 
and  injustice  were  condemned."  To  Burke  more  than  to 
any  other  belongs  the  credit  of  this  achievement. 

His  views  on  the  French  Revolution  have  brought  against 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH,  vii 

him  the  charge  of  inconsistency.  As  was  said,  he  had 
been  the  boldest,  the  most  generous  advocate  of  liberty  in 
1776,  and  yet  thirteen  years  after,  he  had  nothing  but  exe- 
cration for  those  miserable  subjects  who  in  France  were 
suffering  from  far  greater  wrongs  than  the  Americans.  It 
was  charged  that  he  had  no  sympathy  but  for  the  misery  of 
kings  or  queens,  and  that  he  forgot  the  suffering  millions 
of  the  wretched  common  people.  Whatever  the  explana- 
tion, his  passionate  denunciation  of  revolutionary  leaders 
and  principles  became  in  the  end  a  sort  of  frenzy.  As  the 
horrors  of  the  Revolution  increased,  they  excited  him  to 
such  a  degree  as  to  render  him  incapable  of  judging  the 
case  dispassionately.  The  Revolution  was  a  "foul,  mon- 
strous thing,  wholly  out  of  the  course  of  moral  nature,"  — 
"  generated  in  treachery,  frauds  and  falsehood,  hypocrisy, 
and  unprovoked  murder ; "  the  revolutionists  were  mere 
"  quacks  and  impostors,"  "  a  nation  of  murderers,"  "  mur- 
derous atheists,"  etc.  All  this  may  have  been  more  or  less 
true,  but  the  fact  remains  that  his  denunciation  was  one- 
sided and  intemperate.  His  temper  in  this  exciting  crisis 
was  quite  unlike  the  calm  wisdom  of  his  treatment  of  the 
American  question.  His  violence  has  been  attributed  by 
some  of  his  biographers,  in  part,  to  the  eft'ect  on  his  mind 
of  the  death  of  his  only  son,  —  a  youth  for  whom  he  had  a 
most  passionate  affection,  —  and  in  part  to  the  fact  that  his 
intense  love  for  the  established  order  of  things  was  shocked 
beyond  measure  by  the  utter  license  into  which  the  revolu- 
tionists were  betrayed.  It  is  probable,  too,  that  he  had  not 
formed  an  adequate  notion  of  the  corruption  and  incompe- 
tency of  the  French  government  and  society.  His  pam- 
phlet, "Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  France,"  made 
him  the  most  popular  man  of  his  day  among  the  sovereigns 
of  Europe,  although  it  was  the  occasion  of  his  losing  many 
of  his  friends  in  Parliament. 

His  sense  of  right  and  justice  made  him  careless  of  re- 
sults to  himself.  He  accompanied  William  Gerard  Hamil- 
ton when  the  latter  was  made  Secretary  to  Ireland,  and  on 


Viii  EDMUND  BURKE. 

his  retapn  received  through  the  influence  of  Hamilton  a 
pension  of  three  hundred  pounds.  It  soon  appeared,  how- 
ever, that  the  pension  was  intended  as  a  bribe  to  bind  him 
to  a  slavish  devotion  to  the  will  of  his  patron.  Burke  in- 
dignantly resigned  the  pension.  In  those  days  no  man 
might  oppose  the  king  and  hope  for  preferment.  And  yet, 
knowing  this,  Burke  was  for  years  the  head  and  front  of 
opposition  to  the  king's  policy;  so  that  in  spite  of  his 
acknowledged  ability  he  was  never  in  the  ministry,  nor 
indeed  in  any  other  considerable  office.  When,  in  1778,  it 
was  proposed  in  Parliament  to  relax  some  of  the  trade  re- 
strictions imposed  upon  Ireland,  Bristol,  the  city  for  which 
Burke  was  at  that  time  sitting  in  Parliament,  with  other 
trading  cities,  raised  a  violent  opposition.  Burke,  however, 
had  the  courage  to  speak  and  vote  in  favor  of  the  bill.  His 
action  in  this  particular,  together  with  his  advocacy  of  Cath- 
olic toleration,  gave  offence  to  his  constituents.  Two  years 
after,  he  lost  his  seat  in  Parliament. 

Literature  and  literary  men  had  always  been  his  delight : 
it  was  this  love  that  had  turned  him  aside  from  the  study  of 
the  law;  it  was  this  that,  in  the  midst  of  the  most  engross- 
ing parliamentary  responsibilities,  made  him  seek  the  com- 
panionship of  that  famous  club  that  included  Reynolds, 
Grarrick,  Goldsmith,  Gibbon,  Johnson,  and  Boswell.  His 
speeches  have  become  of  greater  influence  in  the  literary 
world  than  they  ever  were  in  the  political.  His  intensity 
of  purpose,  his  high  sense  of  justice,  impressed  him  pro- 
foundly with  the  responsibility  of  his  work  as  a  pleader : 
hence  the  whole  of  his  genius,  his  enthusiasm,  energy,  ima- 
gination, were  poured  into  the  volume  of  his  eloquence. 

The  best  recent  accounts  of  Burke  are  by  Mr.  John 
Morley,  "  Edmund  Burke :  'English  Men  of  Letters ;  "  and 
"Edmund  Burke,  A  Historical  Study."  The  student  will 
also  find  an  excellent  sketch  by  the  same  author,  article 
"  Burke,"  in  the  "  Encyclopaedia  Britannica ;  "  and  he  may 
profitably  consult  Leslie  Stephen's  "English  Thought  in 
the  Eighteenth  Century,"  volume  ii.,  chapter  ix. 


LOGICAL  FORM  OF  THE  SPEECH. 

THE   STRUCTUEE   OF  THE  INTRODUCTION. 

In  the  Introduction,  the  author  proposes  that  Parliament  originate 
measures  looking  towards  concession  or  conciliation  with  the  colonies. 

Read  the  Introduction,  —  i.  e.,  to  the  end  of  paragraph 
13. 

Show  the  logical  structure  of  the  Introduction  by  making 
a  skeleton  analysis  of  the  thought.  The  following  is  given 
as  a  specimen  of  the  method  of  arranging  divisions  and 
subdivisions  :  — 

I.  Renewed   opportunity  is   given  for    deliberating 
upon  a  plan  for  governing  America. 

1.  We  are  therefore  called  upon  to  attend  to 
the  matter. 

II.  The  awfulness  of  the  subject  so  oppressed  me 
that 

1.  I  instructed  myself  in  everything  that  re- 
lated to  the  colonies. 

2.  I  formed  fixed  ideas  as  to  the  general  policy 
of  the  British  Empire. 

State  accurately  and  clearly  in  a  single  sentence  the 
essential  thought  of  the  whole  Introduction. 

Study  Notes  I.-V.  of  Rhetorical  Principles,  page  xv. 

What  is  the  exact  meaning  of  the  word  "partaker' 
occurring  in  par.  2  ? 

EXERCISES    ON   THE    INTRODUCTION. 

Express  in  single  sentences  the  essential  thought  of  the 
following  paragraph  groups:  Paragraphs  1  and  2;  3,  4, 
and  5 ;  6,  7,  and  8 ;  9  and  10 ;  11, 12,  and  13. 


X     THE  STRUCTURE   OF  THE  DEVELOPMENT. 

THE   STRUCTURE   OF  THE   DEVELOPMENT. 

In  the  Development,  the  author  sets  forth  the  arguments  in  favor  of 
conciliation  under  the  two  general  heads  of  (A)  Whether  Parliament 
ought  to  concede,  and  (B)  What  Parliament's  coHcession  ought  to  be. 

Study  Note  VI.  of  Rhetorical  Principles,  page  xx. 

Remembering,  then,  that  the  one  purpose  for  which  the 
author  is  contending  is  that  Parliament  should  adopt  a 
policy  of  conciliation,  read  par.  14. 

Read  pars.  15  and  16,  and  continue  the  construction  of 
the  skeleton  analysis.  Designate  the  main  divisions  by 
Roman  numerals,  subdivisions  by  Arabic,  minor  divisions 
by  italic  letters,  according  to  the  following  specimen  :  — 


WHETHER   PARLIAMENT   OUGHT   TO    CONCEDE. 

I.  The  Population  of  the  Colonies. 

1.  Two  millions   of  Europeans  with  500,000 
others.     (Par.  15.) 

2.  Burke's  reasons  for  putting  the  population 
in  the  forefront.     (Par.  16.) 

a.  No  narrow  system  will  be  applicable. 

b.  Care  is  needed  in  dealing  with  such 
an  object. 

Read  pars.  17-30  inclusive.  Here  the  author  gives 
another  reason  for  concession,  viz. :  II.  The  Industries  of 
the  Colonies.  Add  this  to  the  analysis,  and  show  the  form 
and  structure  of  the  thought  by  continuing  the  skeleton  an- 
alysis, thus : — 

II.  The  Industries  of  the  Colonies. 

1.   The  Commerce.     (Pars.  17—28  inclusive.) 

Express  in  your  own  words  the  idea  contained  in  the  sen- 
tence (par.  10),  "  Refined  policy  ever  has  been  the  parent  of 
confusion.** 


THE  STRUCTURE  OF  THE  DEVELOPMENT,  xi 

a.  Two  comparative  statements  of  export 
trade.     (Pars.  19-24  inclusive.) 

h.  Reflections  upon  the  wonderful  increase. 
(Par.  25.) 

c.  Increase  in  the  case  of  Pennsylvania, 
and  reference  to  imports.  (Pars.  26,  279 
and  28.) 

2.  Agriculture.     (Par.  29.) 

a.  At  the  beginning  of  the  century,  colo- 
nies imported  corn. 

h.  For  some  time  past  the  Old  World  has 
been  fed  by  the  New. 

3.  Fisheries.     (Par.  30.) 

a.  The  energy  with  which  they  have  been 
prosecuted. 

h.  It  has  been  due  not  to  the  constraints 
of  our  government. 
Read  pars.  31-35  inclusive.  Here  the  author  has  paused 
in  his  direct  argument  to  answer  those  who  contend  that, 
if  America  is  so  important,  it  is  worth  fighting  for.  Burke's 
retort  is  that  America  certainly  is  worth  fighting  for,  if 
fighting  a  people  be  the  best  way  of  gaining  them,  but  that 
he  is  in  favor  of  more  prudent  management.  The  teacher 
may  provide  for  this  thought  in  the  outline,  by  making 
a  fourth  subdivision,  "  Objections  to  the  Employment  of 
Force,"  under  II.,  The  Industries  of  the  Colonies.  After 
this  digression  or  negative  argument,  the  author  returns 
(in  par.  36)  to  his  direct  argument. 

Read  pars.  36-46  inclusive.      Here  the  author  assigns 
another  reason  for  Conciliation,  viz. :  — 

III.   The  Temper  and  Character  of  the  People. 
Add  this  to  the  analysis,  together  with  the  six  subdi- 
visions. 

Study  Note  VII.  of  Rhetorical  Principles,  page  xx. 
Read  carefully  pars.  47-64  inclusive,  remembering  that 
in  this  argument  the  details  or  subdivisions  come  first,  as 
shown  in  Note  VII.  of  Rhetorical  Principles. 


xii     THE  STRUCTURE   OF  THE  DEVELOPMENT, 

Add  the  following  to  the  analysis :  — 

1.  Three  ways  in  which  (pars.  47-64)  Parlia^ 
ment  may  proceed  relative  to  this  rebellious  spirit 
of  the  colonies,  —  to  change  it,  to  prosecute  it  as 
criminal,  to  comply  with  it  as  necessary. 

2.  But  to  change  it  is  impossible  ;  to  prosecute 
it  is  inexpedient ;    therefore 

IV.   Compliance  is  a  necessity.     (Par.  64.) 
See  Note  VIII.  of  Rhetorical  Principles,  page  xxi. 
Read   pars.   65-68.      Continue  the  construction  of   the 

analysis,  thus :  — 

B 

WHAT   parliament's    CONCESSION   OUGHT   TO   BE. 

I.  The  Nature   of  the   Concession  demanded 
by  the  Colonies. 

1.  They  are  taxed  by  a  Parliament  in  which 
they  are  not  represented.     (Par.  65.) 

a.    Burke  limits  himself  (pars.  66,  67)  to 
the  policy  of  the  question. 

2.  Burke's  idea  is,  therefore,  to  admit  the  colo- 
nists to  an  interest  in  the  Constitution.   (Par.  68.) 

Bead  pars.  69-76  inclusive.  They  contain  objections  to 
Burke's  idea,  together  with  his  answer.  Add  to  the  an- 
alysis the  words  (a)  '*  Objections  to  the  idea,"  as  a  minor 
division,  under  2,  Burke's  idea. 

Read  pars.  77-90  for  the  third  subdivision  under  the 
Nature  of  the  concession  and  continue  the  analysis  with 
proper  subdivisions. 

See  Note  IX.  of  Rhetorical  Principles,  page  xxi. 

Read  par.  91  and  continue  the  analysis.  This  paragraph 
gives  the  second  main  division  under  B,  viz. :  — 

II.  The  Actual  Concession  proposed  by  Burke. 
Read   pars.    92-112,    arranging    the    thought    as    sub- 
divisions and  minor  divisions  under  II.,  The  Actual  Con- 
cession proposed  by  Burke.^     Express  the  meaning  of  each 

1  To  do  this  may  make  the  outline  too  long,  and  it  may,  at  the  dis- 
cretion of  the  teacher,  be  omitted. 


THE  STRUCTURE  OF  THE  DEVELOPMENT,   xm 

resolution  as  briefly  as  is  consistent  with  clearness  and  ac- 
curacy. 

See  Note  X.  of  Rhetorical  Principles,  page  xxii. 


EXERCISES   ON   THE   DEVELOPMENT. 

What  is  the  precise  meaning  of  the  word  "circum^ 
stance  "  in  par.  14  ? 

What  are  abstract  ideas  of  right  ?     (Par.  14.) 

Commit  to  memory  par.  25. 

What  is  a  seminal  principle  ?     (Par.  25.) 

Give  an  accurate  statement  of  Burke's  ohjections  to 
Force  as  a  means  of  governing  a  people.  (Pars.  32-35  in- 
clusive.) 

What  does  the  word  "  restive,"  par.  37,  mean  ?  Do  not 
assume  that  you  know.     Look  it  up. 

Commit  to  memory  par.  38. 

Amplify  the  statement  contained  in  par.  45,  "  Obedience 
is  what  makes  government,  and  not  the  names  by  which  it 
is  called." 

Write  a  brief  abstract  of  pars.  47-64. 

Restate  carefully  the  idea  (in  par.  61)  contained  in  the 
sentence,  "Sir,  these  considerations  have  great  weight 
•  .  .  that  very  litigation." 

Commit  to  memory  par.  88, 


xiv     THE  STRUCTURE  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S  PLAN 


THE   STRUCTURE  OF  THE  CONCLUSION. 

Read  par.  113  to  the  end.     The  thought  contained  in  the 

Conclusion  may  he  arranged  under  four  main  divisions :  — 

I.    Resolutions  proposed  by  Burke.  (Pars.  113-122.) 

II.    Objections  Answered.     (Pars.  123-127.) 

III.   Burke's  Objections  to  Lord  North's  Plan.  (Pars. 

128-136.) 
rV.   Comparison  of  the  Two  Plans.   (Pars.  137-141.) 
V.    The  Peroration.    142  to  the  end. 
Complete  the  analysis  by  adding  the  above  with  proper 
subdivisions  and  minor  divisions  of  the  thought. 

Study  Note  XI.  of  Rhetorical  Principles,  page  xxii. 

THE   STRUCTURE  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S  PLAN. 

For  the  study  of  this  subject,  see  Note  XII.  of  Rhetori- 
cal Principles,  page  xxiii. 

THE   PARAGRAPH   STRUCTURE   OF  THE   SPEECH. 

See  Note  XIII.  of  Rhetorical  Principles,  page  xxvii. 

Exercise.  Give  a  Summary  of  the  rhetorical  principle^ 
illustrated  by  the  author's  Introduction ;  by  the  Develop 
ment ;  by  the  Conclusion ;  the  Plan ;  Paragraph  Structure. 

EXERCISES   ON   THE    CONCLUSION. 

Express  in  your  own  words  the  argument  in  par.  125. 
What  is  the  author's  Theme  in  the  Peroration  ? 
In  a  single  sentence  give  the  essential  idea  of  the  whole 
Speech. 


TOPICAL  OUTLINE   OF  THE   SPEECH.^ 

The  Speech  consists  of  three  well  defined  parts : 

The  Introduction  —  to  the  end  of  Paragraph  13. 
The  Development  —  Paragraphs  14-112  inclusive. 
The  Conclusion  —  Paragraph  113  to  the  end. 

The  Introduction. 

I.  Renewed  opportunity  to  consider  the  question. 

II.  The  awfulness  of  the  subject, 

III.  The  demand  for  a  fixed  policy. 

IV.  Burke's  proposition  is  peace. 

V.    Parliament  has   already  granted  that   conciliation  is 
admissible. 

The  Development. 

A.  Whether  Parliament  ought  to  concede. 

B.  What  Parliament's  concession  ought  to  be. 


Whether  Parliament  ought  to  concede. 

The  ar^ment  of  the  author  is  that  Parliament  ought  to  concede, 
because  of  — 

I.    The  population  of  the  Colonies. 
II.    The  industries. 

1.  The  commerce. 

2.  The  agriculture. 

3.  The  fisheries. 

1  To  those  who  are  not  disposed  to  study  the  speech  with  the  minuteness  sug- 
gested in  the  Logical  Form  of  the  Speech,  page  ix,  the  topical  outline  will  be  of 
service. 


xvi      TOPICAL   OUTLINE   OF  THE  SPEECH. 

4.    Objections  to  the  employment  of  force  in  over- 
coming the  opposition  of  the  Colonies. 

a.  It  is  temporary. 

b.  It  is  uncertain. 

c.  It  impairs  the  object. 

d.  Parliament  has  had  no  experience. 

HI.    The  temper  and  character  of  the  people  (which  is  de- 
termined by  — ) 

1.  Descent. 

2.  Their  form  of  government. 

3.  The  form  of  religion  in  the  North. 
■  4.    The  haughty  spirit  in  the  South. 

6.   Education  of  the  people. 
6.    Their  remoteness. 

(Here  the  author  changes  the  form  of  his  argument, 

giving  the  details  of  his  argument  first,  and  from 

these  draws  a  conclusion  : ) 

1.  The  three  ways  of  dealing  with  this  spirit  are, 

to  change  it  by  removing  the  cause  ;  to  prose- 
cute it  as  criminal;  to  comply  with  it  as  a 
necessity. 

2.  But  to  change  it  is  impossible ;  to  prosecute  it 

as  criminal  is  inexpedient  and  impossible. 
The  author  concludes  therefore  that  nothing 
is  left  for  Parliament  to  do  but  to  comply 
with  the  demand  for  concession.  It  is  this 
conclusion  which  becomes  the  last  argument 
in  favor  of  concession,  viz. : 
IV.  Compliance  with  the  demand  for  concession  is  a 
necessity. 

B. 
What  Parliamenfs  Concession  should  he. 

I.    The  nature  of  the  concession  demanded : 

1.  The  Colonies  are  taxed  without  representation. 

2.  Burke's  idea  is  that  the  people  .should  be  ad* 

mitted  to  an  interest  in  the  Constitution. 


TOPICAL   OUTLINE   OF  THE  SPEECH,    xvii 

3.   Precedents  for  conciliation. 
a.    Ireland. 
h.   Wales. 

c.  Chester. 

d.  Durham. 

II.    The  Actual  Concession  proposed,  —  to  pass  a  resolu- 
tion acknowledging  that  — 

1.  The  Colonies  have  no  representation  in  Parlia- 

ment. 

2.  They  have  therefore  been  touched  mid  grieved 

by  taxation. 

3.  No   method  has   yet   been  devised  for  giving 

them  representation. 

4.  The  Colonies  have  legal  assemblies  — capable  of 

raising  taxes. 

5.  These  assemblies   have   in  times  past  granted 

*^  aids  '*  to  his  majesty. 

6.  Experience  shows  that  these  "  aids  "  have  been 

more  profitable  than  the  measures  for  taxing 
the  Colonies. 


The  Conclusion. 

I.   Resolutions  proposed  by  Burke. 

1.  To  repeal  the  acts  that  interfere  with  the  local 

courts  and  legislatures. 

2.  To  order   that   judges  shall  hold  their  offices 

during  good  behavior  and  be  removed  for 
good  cause  only  and  by  due  process  of  law. 

3.  To  make  the  Courts  of  Admiralty  more  conve- 

nient. 
IL    Burke's  answer  to  the  objection  that  — 

1.  If  the  concession  be  made  to  the  Colonies  in  the 

matter  of  taxation,  they  will  make  further 
demands. 

2.  The  plan  will  destroy  the  unity  of  empire. 


xviii     TOPICAL    OUTLINE  OF  THE  SPEECH. 

m.     Burke's  objections  to  Lord  North's  plan. 

1.  The  plan  is  a  mere  project. 

2.  It  would  be  fatal  to  the  Constitution, 

3.  It  will  not  give  satisfaction  to  the  Colonies. 

4.  It  will  bring  in  greater  difficulties. 
IV.    Comparison  of  the  two  plans. 

V.   The  peroration. 

The  safety  of  the  kingdom  lies  in  the  devotion  of 
the  people  of  the  Colonies  to  the  Constitution  and 
in  their  affection  for  the  Mother  Country. 


RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  ILLUSTRATED  BY 
THE    SPEECH. 

THE  INTRODUCTION. 


In  an  argument,  the  Introduction  may  have  an  important 
function.  What  it  is  in  the  Speech  on  Conciliation  will 
now  be  considered. 

The  Introduction  contains,  as  has  been  seen,  various  con- 
trasts of  the  plan  pursued  by  ParHament  with  the  one  pro- 
posed by  Burke.  He  tells  them  that  he  has  a  definite  plan, 
—  they  have  not ;  that  his  opinions  have  been  steadfast,  — 
theirs  wavering ;  under  Parliament's  government  "  things 
have  been  hastening  to  an  incurable  alienation  of  the  colo- 
nies, "  —  Burke's  plan  proposes  to  restore  "  the  former  UU' 
suspecting  confidence  in  the  mother  country."  By  reason 
of  the  plan  pursued  by  Parliament  —  or,  rather,  by  reason  of 
their  frequent  change  of  plan  —  "  America  has  been  kept 
in  continual  agitation ; "  the  one  advocated  by  Burke  means 
to  give  peace. 

XL 

The  contrasts  are  not,  of  course,  arranged  as  above :  to 
have  done  so  would  probably  have  offended  his  hearers, 
whereas  his  desire,  as  will  be  seen  hereafter,  was  quite  the 
reverse    of   this.      Nevertheless,    without  placing   the   two 

EXERCISE. 

Find  other  points  of  contrast  in  the  two  plans. 


XX     RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  ILLUSTRATED. 

methods  of  government  in  offensive  contrast,  the  author  has 
30  skilfully  arranged  the  points  of  difference,  that  his  own 
plan  stands  out  with  prominence.  Without  giving  details, 
he  sets  forth  clearly  and  unmistakably  what  he  intends  to 
show.  "  I  mean,"  he  says,  "  to  give  peace  ;  "  and  again,  "  I 
make  no  difficulty  in  affirming  that  the  proposals  of  concili- 
ation and  concession  ought  to  originate  from  us ; "  i.  e., 
he  means  to  show  that  Parliament,  abandoning  its  policy  of 
coercion,  should  give  the  colonies  peace  by  originating  pro- 
posals of  concession  and  conciliation. 

The  author  has  thus  a  definite  object  in  view,  and  has 
given  it  an  exact  statement  in  the  Introduction.  This, 
indeed,  is  the  first  common  function  of  the  Introduction. 

But  if  the  above  —  i.  e,,  to  give  an  exact  statement  of 
his  object  —  had  been  his  only  purpose,  the  author  would 
probably  have  made  his  Introduction  shorter.  For  the  sim- 
ple purpose  of  stating  his  meaning  clearly,  the  single  sen- 
tence, "  I  make  no  difficulty  in  affirming  that  the  proposals 
of  concession  should  originate  from  us,"  would  have  been 
sufficient.  It  will  be  seen,  however,  that  to  have  introduced 
his  theme  so  bluntly  might  have  excited  only  disgust  and 
opposition,  instead  of  the  interest,  attention,  and  coopera- 
tion which  he  desired.  Hence  that  another  reason  existed 
for  the  long  Introduction  may  easily  be  inferred.  A  fur- 
ther examination  of  the  Speech  will  show  what  the  rea- 
son is. 

Occurring  with  such  frequency  as  to  give  a  distinct  tone 
to  what  the  author  says,  are  expressions  of  the  same  general 
nature  as  the  following :  "  I  had  no  sort  of  reason  to  rely 
upon  the  strength  of  my  natural  abilities  for  the  proper 
execution  of  that  trust ;  "  he  assures  them  that  he  "  bows 
under  the  high  authority  of  the  House ;  "  he  does  not  haz- 
ard "  a  censure  upon  the  motives  of  former  Parliaments  ;  " 
he  looks  upon  their  present  opportunity  to  reconsider  the 
subject  as  "  a  providential  favor ; "  he  admonishes  them 
that  they  are  called  upon  to  attend  to  America  as   by  a 


RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  ILLUSTRATED,    xxi 

"  superior  warning  voice."     "  It  is,"  he  says,  "  an  awfal 
subject,  or  there  is  none  this  side  of  the  grave."  * 

III. 

In  spite,  however,  of  all  that  he  had  done  to  conciliate 
their  favor,  and  to  centre  their  thought  upon  the  gravity  of 
the  subject,  Burke  could  not  be  certain  that  his  efforts  thus 
far  would  induce  Parliament  to  give  his  plan  calm,  un- 
prejudiced consideration :  he  might  find  that  the  House  did 
not  regard  their  opportunity  "  as  a  providential  favor ;  "  he 
might  find  their  prejudice  stronger  than  their  reason ;  and 
consequently  that  some  further  effort  might  still  be  necessary 
before  it  would  be  safe  to  trust  the  details  of  his  plan  to 
their  judgment.  He  proceeds,  therefore,  to  argue  that  his 
plan  commends  itself  to  their  consideration  in  the  fact  that 
the  House,  by  accepting  the  resolution  moved  by  Lord 
North,  had  thereby  declared  conciliation  (^.  e.,  the  plan  he 
was  urging)  to  be  admissible ;  he  reminds  them  also  that 
they  had  gone  further,  -—  that  they  had  declared  conciliation 
to  be  admissible  previous  to  any  submission  on  the  part  of 
America ;  and,  still  further,  that  the  House  had  gone  "  a 
good  deal  beyond  even  that  mark,"  and  had  admitted  that 
the  "  complaints  of  the  former  mode  of  exerting  the  right 
of  taxation  had  not  been  altogether  unfounded." 

The  author  has  kept  this  argument  as  the  climax  in  his 
effort  to  conciliate  their  favor.  It  is  easy  to  see,  if  he  could 
show  the  plan  for  which  he  was  contending  to  be  based  upon 
a  principle  which  Parliament  had  already  admitted  and  acted 
upon,  that  he  had  presumably  done  much  to  overcome 
prejudice,  to  awaken  interest  in  his  plan,  and  thereby  to 

lessen  the  labor  of  persuading  Parliament  to  adopt  it. 

, . —  1^ 

EXERCISE. 

^  What  sentiments  does  the  author  desire  to  arouse  to- 
wards himself  and  his  subject  bj  the  employment  of  these 
and  similar  expressions  ? 

Find  other  expressions  indicating  the  same  general  pur- 
pose. 


xxii     RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  ILLUSTRATED. 

To  arouse  interest,  to  overcome  prejudice,  to  gain  favor- 
able consideration  for  his  project,  appears  therefore  to  have 
been  the  author's  serious  purpose,  —  a  purpose  that  he  has 
endeavored  to  effect  by  his  respectful  attitude  towards  the 
high  authority  of  the  House,  by  directing  their  minds  to  the 
gravity  of  the  subject,  and  by  showing  that  the  principle  for 
which  he  was  contending,  they  had  already  admitted. 

It  appears,  therefore,  that  the  twofold  purpose  ^  for  which 
the  author  employs  the  Introduction  is,  as  has  been  shown, 
first,  to  set  forth  clearly  the  purpose  for  which  the  Speech 
was  written  ",  second,  to  gain  for  his  plan  —  and  for  himself 
in  urging  it  —  the  goodwill  of  his  auditors,  their  favorable 
consideration  beforehand. 

1  This  twofold  purpose  may  be  taken  as  governing  the  construction 
and  employment  of  prose  Introductions.  From  the  study  of  the  Speech 
thus  far  certain  inferences  may  be  drawn  :  — 

First.  When  the  subject  is  easily  understood,  when  its  meaning  is 
clear  from  its  mere  statement,  when  the  minds  of  the  hearers  are  favor- 
ably disposed  to  the  speaker's  views,  the  Introduction  may  be  dis- 
pensed with  altogether,  or  at  most  made  only  so  long  as  to  prevent 
inartistic  or  inelegant  bluntness. 

Second.  Where  the  subject  is  complex,  difficult  to  understand; 
where,  on  account  of  its  importance,  it  needs  a  full  and  careful  state- 
ment ;  or  where,  on  the  other  hand,  prejudice  and  indifference  are  to  be 
encountered,  —  the  Introduction  affords  the  opportunity  of  explaining 
the  one  and  of  overcoming  the  other.  In  such  cases  the  Introduction 
is  of  vital  consequence. 

Third.  The  Introduction  existing  simply  as  an  aid  to  the  Develop- 
ment, it  foUows  that  nothing  may  properly  form  part  of  it  but  what  is 
essentially  connected  with  the  author's  purpose  in  the  Development. 
However  interesting  in  itself,  matter  that  does  not  in  some  way  bear 
upon  the  discussion  has  no  right  in  the  Introduction.  Cicero's  dictum 
expresses  the  true  idea :  "  Nor  is  the  exordium  of  a  speech  to  be 
sought  from  without,  or  from  anything  unconnected  with  the  subject, 
but  to  be  derived  from  the  very  essence  of  the  cause." 

Fourth.  The  Introduction  should  not  be  written  until  the  Develop- 
ment has  been  written,  or  at  least  definitely  planned.  This  is  for 
the  obvious  reason  that,  until  the  author  has  determined  upon  the  latter, 
the  question  as  to  how  his  subject  shall  be  most  successfully  introduced 
eannot  be  intelligently  settled. 


RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  ILLUSTRATED,  xxiii 

IV. 

When  the  author  (par.  13)  states  that  he  means  to  give 
peace,  and  affirms  that,  in  order  thereto,  Parliament  should 
originate  a  policy  of  conciliation  and  concession,  he  states 
what  is  known  in  Rhetoric  as  the  Theme.  The  Theme  is 
the  definite  statement  of  the  purpose  for  which  the  work  is 
written.  In  the  present  case,  and  generally  in  arguments, 
the  Theme  is  a  proposition,  a  statement  to  be  proved.  It  is 
a  clear-cut,  definite  statement ;  it  may  be  expressed  in  a 
single  sentence.  Thus  it  serves  as  a  limit  to  the  subject  and 
to  the  speaker.  Everything  admitted  to  the  Development 
must  in  some  way  bear  upon  the  truth  of  the  one  definite 
Theme  which  the  author  has  proposed.  How  well  the  au- 
thor keeps  to  this  requirement  will  be  seen  as  the  thought 
is  studied. 

V. 

There  is  a  great  difference  between  the  Theme  and  the 
Subject.  The  Subject  is  general,  under  which  a  number 
of  specific  Themes  may  be  suggested.  A  Theme  is  fixed 
upon  only  when  the  general  subject  is  limited  to  a  par- 
ticular line  of  discussion,  thus  ;  under  the  general  subject, 
"American  Affairs,*'  Burke  might  have  proposed  several 
themes,  for  instance :  "  The  Americans  should  be  allowed 
to  govern  themselves;"  "Parliament's  misgovernment  is 
directly  responsible  for  the  condition  of  affairs  in  the  colo- 
nies ;  "  "  The  Americans  should  be  restrained  by  force  of 
arms;"  "The  restrictive  measures  should  be  made  more 
severe ; "  "  Parliament  should  originate  proposals  of  conces- 
sion to  the  colonies."  In  each  of  these  cases  the  general 
topic,  American  Affairs,  is  limited  to  a  particular  line  of  dis- 
cusssion,  and  hence  each  becomes  a  Theme.^ 

EXERCISE. 

State  other  Themes  under  the  general  topic,  Americatt 
AiEairs. 


xxiv RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  ILLUSTRATED, 
THE  DEVELOPMENT. 

VI. 

The  Introduction  has  prepared  the  way  for  the  most  im«' 
portant  part  of  the  Speech,  —  the  Development.  The  latter, 
in  fact,  is  not  so  much  a  part  of  the  Speech  as  that  it  is  the 
Speech.  It  sets  forth  the  Development  of  the  author's  pur- 
pose, and  his  purpose  is  to  convince  the  House  of  the  truth 
of  his  Theme,  viz.,  that  Parliament,  abandoning  its  policy 
of  coercion,  should  make  proposals  of  concession  and  con- 
ciliation to  the  colonies.  This  is  the  single  Theme  that  the 
author  sets  before  his  hearers.  Thus  limited,  he  will  natu- 
rally keep  from  the  Development  everything  that  does  not 
bear  upon  the  Theme  under  discussion ;  and,  by  a  natural 
inference,  will  endeavor  to  exhibit  his  Theme  completely 
and  fully.  The  study  of  the  author's  thought  will  show 
^w  successfully  he  meets  both  requirements.^ 

vn. 

After  the  third  argument,  "  the  Temper  and  Character  of 
ihe  people,"  the  fourth  might  naturally  be  expected.  But 
^t  is  not  immediately  given.  The  reason  is,  that  the  author 
(in  pars.  47-64)  has  changed  the  form  of  his  reasoning. 
The  arguments  given  thus  far  are  known  in  rhetoric  as 
Deductive,  i.  e.,  arguments  in  which  the  general  truth  or 

^  The  editor's  purpose  is  not  to  discuss  the  Development  from  the 
standpoint  of  a  technical  argument.  Throughout  the  Speech  evi- 
dences of  the  technique  of  the  trained  reasoner  and  pleader  are  found, 
but  they  are  of  such  special  application  that  they  might  prove  to 
the  preparatory  student  unprofitable  in  themselves,  and  serve  only 
to  divert  the  mind  from  lessons  that  are  plainer  and  of  wider  scope.  It 
b  rather  the  purpose,  by  directing  attention  to  the  thought,  to  show 
that  the  Development  has  been  constructed  upon  a  skilfully  laid  plan, 
—  a  plan  that  will  appear  clear  and  direct  as  the  Theme  was  definite 
and  single.  The  more  closely  Burke's  work  is  analyzed,  the  more 
clearly  will  appear  his  esdmate  of  singleness  of  purpose  and  definite- 
tess  of  method. 


RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  ILLUSTRATED,    xxv 

principle  is  stated  first,  while  particulars  and  details  come 
afterwards. 

In  pars.  47-64,  however,  the  author,  changing  the  form  of 
his  argument,  gives  the  details  first,  and  from  these  draws 
a  conclusion ;  and  the  conclusion  is  the  fourth  main  argu- 
ment. This  mode  of  reasoning  is  cabled  Inductive.  The 
author  leads  his  hearers  from  point  to  point  towards  a 
conclusion  that  he  has  had  in  mind  from  the  beginningo 
The  skill  and  art  he  shows  in  changing  the  form  of  his 
argument  at  this  point  will  be  discussed  in  Note  XII. 

VIII. 

•  The  last  point  in  the  author's  argument  was,  that  com- 
pliance was  a  necessity.  He  has  thus  proved  that  Parlia- 
ment ought  to  concede,  first,  because  of  the  Population ; 
second,  because  of  their  Industries  ;  tliird,  because  of  the 
Temper  and  Character  of  the  people  ;  fourth,  because  com- 
pliance is  a  necessity,  —  Parliament  has  no  other  course  left : 
it  is  driven  to  concession  and  conciliation  by  the  necessity 
of  the  case.  This  finishes  the  first  leading  division  of  the 
author's  argument,  given  in  par.  14.  The  author  then  pro- 
ceeds to  answer  B,  What  Parliament's  Concession  ought 
to  be. 

IX. 

It  will  be  observed  that  thus  far  the  author  has  not  stated 
the  actual  concession  that  he  has  in  mind,  but  simply  tha 
Nature  of  the  Concession.  Citing  the  examples  of  Ireland. 
Wales,  Durham,  and  Chester,  he  shows  the  authority  of  the 
crown  to  have  been  acknowledged  and  respected  just  in  pro- 
portion to  their  enjoyment  of  the  benefits  of  the  English  Con- 
stitution. As  shown,  therefore,  by  the  appeal  to  the  British 
Constitution,  the  Nature  of  the  Concession  demanded  for 
the  colonies  is  an  extension  of  their  rights  and  privileges 
as  English  subjects.  "  Why  not  apply  these  principles  to 
America,"  asks  the  author,  "  especially  as  America  is  in< 
finitely  greater  ?  "    (Par.  ^^.) 


2cxvi  RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  ILLUSTRATED, 

X. 

This  is  really  the  end  of  the  author's  direct  argument.  He 
has  answered  the  second  of  the  leading  questions  into  which 
he  divided  the  Development,  and  is  now  ready  for  the  third 
part  of  the  Speech, — the  Conclusion.  This  extends  from 
par.  113  to  the  end  of  the  Speech.  "  The  question  now  is," 
says  the  author,  "  whether  you  will  abide  by  experience  or 
by  a  mischievous  theory." 

THE   CONCLUSION. 

XI. 

An  examination  of  the  Conclusion,  particularly  pars.  113- 
122,  shows  that,  — 

First,  it  bears  strict  relation  to  what  has  formed  the  sub- 
ject of  discourse.  It  comes  in  consequence  of  the  ideas 
worked  out  in  the  Development ;  it  comes  as  a  direct  in- 
ference from  the  truths  of  the  Development.  If  the  Develop- 
ment be  true,  then  the  Conclusion  must  follow.  This  arrange- 
ment is  part  of  the  author's  plan :  the  thought  is  so  arranged 
as  to  lead  the  hearer  to  the  Conclusion  which  the  author  has 
had  in  mind  from  the  beginning.  Thus  Burke  argues  that, 
inasmuch  as  Conciliation  has  been  proved  to  be  the  proper 
course  of  action,  every  law  that  has  been  passed  to  uphold 
a  contrary  system  should  be  repealed.  Accept  the  truth  of 
the  argument  and  you  must  accept  the  reasonableness  of  the 
Conclusion.  Burke's  Conclusion,  therefore,  as  far  as  pars, 
113—122,  comes  as  a  necessary  consequence  of  what  he  has 
shown  in  the  Development.  From  an  artistic  point  of  view, 
this  is  the  end  of  the  Speech :  Burke  himself  says,  "  Here  I 
should  close." 

But,  second,  an  argument  addressed  simply  to  the  under- 
standing, particularly  if,  as  in  the  present  case,  the  hearers 
be  prejudiced  and  obstinate,  may  sometimes  fail  to  effect  the 
desired  object.  Hence  the  speaker  labors  to  overcome  objeo 
tions.     Moreover,  orators  and  pleaders  have  recognized  the 


RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  ILLUSTRATED,  xxvii 

occasional  necessity  of  an  appeal  to  the  feelings  and  emotions. 
Burke  employs  this  method  of  appeal  in  the  Peroration,  par. 
142  to  the  end.  Here  he  dwells  with  earnestness  upon  the 
love  of  the  people,  upon  their  attachment  to  the  Englisl 
Constitution,  as  the  sure  basis  of  all  service  to  the  empire. 
The  purpose  of  the  appeal  is  to  stimulate  the  hearers  to  take 
the  action  desired.  Burke's  knowledge  of  his  hearers  per- 
haps led  him  to  this  final  effort.^ 

THE  author's   plan. 

XII. 

The  Plan  upon  which  the  Speech  is  constructed  presents 
features  that  require  careful  study.  It  is  desirable,  for  this 
study,  that  the  student  have  before  him  the  outline  which  he 
has  been  directed  to  construct  throughout  the  reading. 

First.  It  is  evident  that  the  Development  proceeds  ac- 
cording to  a  clearly  defined  Plan.  Evidences  of  this  orderly 
arrangement  of  thought  occur  throughout  the  course  of  the 
Speech.    It  is  simple  in  its  parts  and  definite  in  its  methods. 

Second.  We  shall  consider  more  in  detail  the  Plan  of  the 
Development,  —  the  essential  part  of  the  Speech.  The 
Development  has  kept  to  the  one  Theme  proposed  in  the 
Introduction,  viz.,  that  Parliament  should  make  proposals 
of  concession.  As  was  suggested  in  the  Introduction  and 
Development,  the  author,  having  limited  himself  to  a  Definite 
Theme,  has  kept  from  the  discussion  everything  irrelevant. 
Looking  over  the  outline  or  plan  of  the  thought,  it  will  be 

^  The  Conclusion  does  not  exist  for  itself  independent  of  the  De- 
velopment. Its  purpose  is  simply  in  line  with  the  Development : 
whatever  is  effective  in  this  line  is  in  place  ;  whatever  is  not  thus  in 
line  has  no  place  in  the  Conclusion. 

The  same  general  considerations  that  govern  the  construction  and 
use  of  the  Introduction  govern  the  Conclusion, —  it  must  be  long  enough 
to  effect  its  legitimate  purpose  ;  t.  e.,  to  enable  the  pleader  to  set  forth 
any  consequences  that  may  flow  from  the  truths  which  he  has  urged 
In  the  Development. 


sxYiii  RHET0RIC4L  PRINCIPLES  ILLUSTRATED. 

seen  that  nothing  there  presented  may  be  omitted  without; 
impairing  the  argument.  Every  division  smd  subdivision 
of  the  argument  has  its  part  in  effecting  the  one  purpose  of 
the  author.  Besides,  the  study  of  the  thought  will  show 
how  complete  and  conclusive  the  argument  is.  The  Develop 
ment,  therefore,  has  Unity  and  Completeness. 

Third.  The  Arriangement  of  thought  is  made  with  the 
studied  purpose  of  gaining  the  best  effect.  Evidences  oi 
this  purpose  are  found  in  tlie  fact  that  attention  is  centred 
upon  one  thought  at  a  time.  The  author  does  not  distract 
the  mind  by  any  confusion  or  overlapping  of  the  arguments : 
the  lines  between  the  arguments  are  distinctly  marked ;  and 
yet,  while  this  is  true,  the  different  arguments  are  made  to 
fit  each  other  so  nicely  that  they  make  a  cliain  of  reasoning. 
Thus,  out  of  No.  I.,  Population,  there  naturally  grow  the 
next  two ;  while  from  the  Temper  and  Character  of  the 
people  there  naturally  grows  No.  IV.  The  hearer  is  thus 
made  to  follow  the  speaker  in  a  series  of  logical,  natural 
steps.  Again,  evidence  of  the  author's  studied  arrangement 
of  thought  is  found  in  his  continued  effort  after  Climax, 
Climax  consists  in  arranging  thought  in  the  order  of  strength, 
with  a  view  to  increasing  the  force  of  the  presentation. 
Numerous  evidences  of  this  occur.  It  is  found  in  the  In- 
troduction, where,  in  his  effort  to  gain  favorable  considera- 
tion for  his  Plan,  the  author  finally  shows  that  what  he  is 
contending  for  the  House  has  already  admitted.  It  is  found 
again  in  his  leading  divisions  of  the  Development :  the  ques« 
tion  as  to  whether  Parliament  ought  to  concede  is  naturally 
preparatory  to  what  Parliament  ought  to  concede.  It  is 
found  in  the  arrangement  of  arguments  under  A.  Observe 
the  increasing  strength  of  the  arguments :  first,  the  Popula- 
tion—  2,500,000.  This  number,  great  as  it  is,  might  not 
have  appealed  to  the  prejudiced  Englishman :  the  question 
of  their  commercial  interest  might,  however.  Hence  the 
author  places  their  Industries  as  an  argument  of  additional 
ftrength.     This  in  turn  is  followed  by  the  Temper  and  Cha» 


RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  ILLUSTRATED,   xxix 

acter  of  the  people :  they  are  not  men  of  slavish  spirit,— 
there  prevails  among  them  a  fierce  and  intractable  spirit  of 
liberty.  The  Climax  is  evident  when  in  pars.  45  and  47  the 
author  asks,  What  shall  we  do  with  this  spirit  ?  There  are 
only  three  things  they  can  attempt,  —  to  change  the  spirit, 
to  prosecute  it  as  criminal,  to  comply  with  it  as  a  necessary 
evil.  But  they  can't  change  it,  —  unalterable  conditions  are 
against  the  change :  they  can't  prosecute  it  as  criminal,  be- 
cause they  can't  bring  a  prosecution  against  a  whole  nation. 
Consequently  there  is  only  one  thing  left,  and  that  is  to 
comply  with  the  spirit,  to  submit  to  it  as  to  a  necessary  evil. 

It  was  doubtless  with  the  purpose  of  making  this  Climax 
still  more  forcible  that  the  author  (pars.  47-64)  changed  the 
form  of  his  argument  from  the  Deductive  to  the  Inductive, 
because  the  latter  proceeds  from  particulars  to  an  inference ; 
and  the  inference  finally  given,  which  the  hearers  themselves 
have  been  led  to  draw,  forms  an  argument  the  most  forcible 
of  all.  The  last  argument  would  have  lost  much  of  its  force 
if  it  had  been  arranged  as  the  others  were. 

Finally,  the  studied  effort  of  the  author  after  the  best 
effect  in  the  arrangement  of  thought  is  shown  in  the  em- 
ployment of  the  principle  of  Suspense.  Everything  in  the 
early  part  of  the  Speech  points  towards  a  concession  which 
Burke  is  going  to  propose,  but  it  is  not  until  the  final  para- 
graphs of  the  Development  that  the  actual  concession  is 
set  forth.  Had  the  author  stated  the  actual  concession 
in  the  beginning,  interest  in  it,  as  may  easily  be  seen,  would 
have  gradually  waned,  and,  by  the  time  the  Speech  were 
finished,  the  proposed  concession  might,  perhaps,  have  been 
forgotten.  According  to  the  arrangement  of  the  author,  the 
mind  is  kept  looking  on  and  on  towards  a  concession  to  be 
proposed,  but  only  after  the  mind  has  been  stimulated  by 
arguments  in  favor  of  concession  is  the  concession  actually 
given.  This  arrangement  of  thought  is  the  Principle  of 
Suspense.  It  seems  clear  from  these  particulars  that  the 
Plan  shows  a  studied  effort  after  the  best  attainable  effect. 


XXX     RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  ILLUSTRATED. 

Fourth.  The  author  writes  under  strong  feeling.  He 
appears  to  be  thoroughly  in  earnest,  to  he  completely  under 
the  sway  of  the  idea  which  he  is  urging.  One  has  only  to 
read  to  be  impressed  with  this  characteristic  of  the  Speech. 
Take  it  at  almost  any  point,  and  the  deep  onward  §weep 
of  its  thought  carries  our  sympathies  with  it.  Paragraphs 
(taken  at  random)  that  show  this  depth  of  feeling  are  the 
following:  25,  30,  38,  40,  45,  79,  88,  142. 

The  features  that  have  been  touched  upon  as  characterise 
tic  of  this  Speech  are  among  those  from  which  language 
acquires  in  great  degree  "  clearness,  precision,  fitness,  and 
effectiveness."  ^ 

1  There  are  two  steps  in  composition-writing  which,  to  untrained 
minds,  are  especially  irksome  and  difficult,  —  the  selection  of  a  definite, 
narrowly  limited  Theme,  and  the  construction  of  a  Plan  ;  and  yet,  of  all 
its  processes,  Composition  gains  most  from  the  selection  of  the  one  and 
the  construction  of  the  other.  In  this  Speech  the  student  has  followed 
the  plan  of  a  Master  in  the  Art  of  Composition,  has  observed  the  defi- 
niteness  of  his  Theme,  the  skill  shown  in  the  plan.  To  the  common 
testimony  of  literary  men  regarding  the  importance  of  earnest,  pains- 
taking arrangement  of  thought,  it  may  be  added  that  the  study  of  every 
■work  of  serious  purpose  shows  it  to  proceed  according  to  a  plan  carefully 
constructed.  Even  to  trained  minds,  thought  does  not  always  occur 
in  logical  sequence  and  proportion.  For  the  best  arrangement,  labor 
even  to  these  is  essential.  It  is  of  still  greater  importance  to  those  who 
are  beginners  in  the  Art.  To  construct  a  plan  with  a  logical,  effective 
arrangement  of  parts,  means  labor,  but  it  is  labor  that  must  be  borne. 
It  is  when  the  thought  lies  before  us  in  an  outline  or  plan  that  we  can, 
as  it  were,  see  it  in  its  force  or  weakness  ;  see  it  in  its  various  relations ; 
see  it  to  be  proper  or  improper  in  arrangement  and  proportion.  We 
can,  in  a  word,  criticise  it,  and  put  to  ourselves  the  question  whether  our 
thought  and  our  method  are  the  best  suited  to  effect  our  purpose.  For 
the  beginner  in  composition  the  plan  is  a  necessity. 

The  observations  made  upon  the  plan  of  Burke's  Speech  have  a 
general  application,  to  the  student's  work  and  composition. 

1.  The  Development  should  keep  to  a  single  definite  Theme. 

2.  The  Development  should  proceed  according  to  a  definite  plan. 

3.  The  Thought  should  be  arranged  with  a  view  to  the  best  effect, 

4.  The  student  should  write  with  earnestness. 

5.  In  making  the  outline  the  mind  should  be  occupied  with  the 
masses  and  arrangement  of  thought. 


BHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  ILLUSTRATED,      xxxi 

THE  PARAGRAPH   STRUCTURE  OF  THE   SPEECH. 

XIII. 

Clearness  and  Force  are  aided  by  the  Structure  of  the 
author's  Paragraphs.  A  Paragraph  is  a  chain  of  sentences 
leading  to  the  development  of  the  single  thought  that  forms 
its  topic.  An  unsystematic,  haphazard  collection  of  sen- 
tences, without  unity  of  purpose,  does  not  therefore  conform 
to  the  definition.  Since  its  purpose  is  to  develop  a  single 
idea  or  theme,  the  place  and  number  of  Paragraphs  will  be 
determined  in  part  by  the  divisions  under  which  the  thought 
is  logically  grouped.  Each  important  thought  will  have 
its  Paragraph;  each  Paragraph  its  thought.  Constructed 
according  to  this  plan,  they  add  to  the  effectiveness  of  the 
work  by  indicating  precisely  the  thought  under  discussion. 
The  theme  will  be  more  or  less  clear  according  to  the 
nature  of  the  composition.  In  Narrative  and  Descriptive 
writing,  it  is  frequently  difficult  to  express  the  Paragraph 
theme  in  words  ;  but  ift  works  of  a  formal  kind,  such  as  the 
Speech  on  Conciliation,  the  difficulty  does  not  exist. 

In  the  Construction  of  the  Paragraph  three  general  quali- 
ties are  essential,  —  Unity,  Proportion,  and  Sequence. 

Unity  requires  that  everything  admitted  to  the  Paragraph 
be  directed  to  one  end,  —  the  development  of  the  single  idea 
that  forms  the  Paragraph  subject.  In  fact  this  requirement 
is  simply  an  extension  of  the  idea  of  Unity  that  governs 
the  construction  of  the  discourse  as  a  whole.  As  to  the  Unity 
of  the  Paragraph,  while  authors  of  Burke's  day  were  not 
so  particular  as  those  of  recent  times,  yet  the  study  of  the 
Speech  will  show  with  what  earnestness  the  author  has  ad- 
hered to  its  essential  requirements. 

Proportion  requires  that,  the  thought  best  suited  for  de- 
veloping the  idea  having  been  determined  upon,  a  proper 
relation  be  maintained  between  the  principal  and  subordinate 
parts,  —  that  what  is  important  be  given  importance,  both  Id 


xxxii     RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  ILLUSTRATED, 

the  position  it  occupies  in  the  Paragraph  and  in  the  space  it 
occupies ;  and  that  what  is  of  subordinate  importance  be 
correspondingly  subordinated. 

Sequence  requires  that  the  thoughts  of  the  Paragraph  fol- 
low each  other  in  natural  logical  order.  This  order  should 
be  towards  a  climax  in  interest  and  importance.  This  quality 
of  Burke's  plan  of  work  has  been  pointed  out :  it  appears 
in  the  Speech  as  a  whole  and  in  its  several  parts. 

EXERCISE. 

Test  these  requirements  in  paragraphs  taken  at  random. 
Do  the  same  with  pars.  30-40. 

Show  the  sequence  of  thought  in  par.  66  by  making  a 
Shain  of  short  sentences  expressing  the  successive  ideas. 


EDMUND  BURKE'S  SPEECH 

ON  MOVING  HIS  RESOLUTIONS  FOR  CONCILIATION" 
WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES.  HOUSE  OF  COM-' 
MONS,  MARCH  22,  1775. 

HISTORICAL  NOTE. 

Incensed  at  the  violent  proceedings  in  the  colonies,  and  partio> 
ularly  at  those  in  the  city  of  Boston,  Parliament  proceeded  to 
retaliate.  First,  they  passed  the  Boston  Port  Bill,  forbidding 
all  vessels  to  leave  or  enter  Boston  harbor.  The  hope  was,  of 
course,  to  punish  Boston  by  crippling  its  trade.  As  is  well  known, 
other  cities  in  the  vicinity  offered  the  use  of  their  ports  to  the 
Boston  merchants.  But  this  —  much  as  it  showed  sympathy  for 
Boston  —  could  not  save  the  latter  from  serious  inconvenience 
and  loss.  The  act  failed,  however,  to  effect  all  that  Parliament 
had  designed.  The  second  act  in  retaliation  was  the  Massachu- 
setts Bill,  which  took  the  government  of  the  colony  from  the 
hands  of  the  people  and  gave  it  into  the  power  of  the  King  or 
his  agents  ;  third,  the  Transportation  Bill,  which  directed  that 
Americans  committing  murder  in  resisting  law  should  be  sent 
for  trial  to  England.  The  effect  of  all  these  laws  was  to  lead  to 
a  still  closer  union  than  ever  among  the  colonies  in  their  pur- 
pose of  resisting  English  encroachment.  The  outgrowth  of  this 
purpose  was  the  first  Continental  or  General  Congress,  which 
met  in  Philadelphia,  September,  1774.  They  at  once  agreed 
upon  a  Declaration  of  Rights,  commended  the  people  of  Massa- 
chusetts for  their  brave  resistance,  demanded  the  repeal  of  va- 
rious Acts  which  they  regarded  as  infringements  of  their  rights, 
and  issued  a  call  for  another  Congress  to  meet  in  the  May  fol- 
lowing. The  union  of  the  American  Colonies  in  the  sentiment 
and  purpose  of  resisting  the  invasion  of  their  rights  was  now 
general.  By  this  time  the  English  statesman  had  begun  to  real- 
ize that  this  united  resistance  was  a  source  of  great  danger. 
Chatham,  a  warm  friend  of  the  colonies,  more  than  once,  in  violent 


a     -V      '  :-     ^:$i)Ml^ND  BURKE, 

denunciation  of  the  Acts  of  Parliament,  praised  the  colonies  for 
their  boldness  ;  and,  declaring  that  effectual  opposition  to  America 
was  under  the  circumstances  impossible,  urged  that  the  obnoxious 
laws  be  repealed.  Throughout  the  discussions,  Burke,  who  had 
entered  Parliament  about  the  time  of  the  repeal  of  the  Stamp 
Act,  had  been  on  the  side  of  liberal  and  fair  treatment  of  the 
colonies. 

In  the  midst  of  the  stormy  debates  that  occurred.  Lord  North, 
who  had  been  offensively  active  in  urging  the  King's  and  Parlia- 
ment's policy  of  coercion,  brought  into  the  House  what  he  called 
a  plan  for  conciliating  the  differences  with  the  colonies.  It  pro- 
vided, in  brief,  that  when  any  of  the  colonies  should  propose  to 
make  provision,  according  to  its  "  condition,  circumstances,  and 
situation,"  for  contributing  to  the  common  defense  and  for  the 
support  of  the  civil  government.  Parliament  would  refrain  from 
laying  any  taxes  upon  such  a  colony,  except  such  as  were  neces- 
sary for  the  regulation  of  commerce. 

Burke  charged  that  the  Ministry  knew  this  to  be  a  mere  trick 
for  the  purpose  of  disuniting  the  colonies.  Since  Parliament 
was  to  be  the  judge  of  what  was  the  proper  proportion  for  each 
colony  to  pay,  according  to  its  "  condition,  circumstances,  and  situ- 
ation," he  represented  that  the  scheme  would  prove  a  sort  of  auc- 
tion in  which  Parliament  would  give  the  exemption  from  taxes 
to  the  colonies  bidding  highest  for  the  privilege.  Moreover,  he 
urged  that  the  plan  was  likely  to  produce  greater  disorders  tJian 
before,  because,  under  the  conditions  of  the  plan,  neither  the 
amount  of  the  tax  nor  the  purpose  to  which  it  was  to  be  applied 
was  in  the  hands  of  the  colony. 

Nevertheless,  the  word  Conciliation  had  been  used,  and  shortly 
after,  March  22,  1775,  Burke  brought  in  his  scheme  of  concilia- 
tion, which  in  his  judgment  would  be  effective  in  removing  the 
ground  of  difference  between  Parliament  and  the  colonies.  This 
scheme  is  set  forth  in  the  Speech  on  Conciliation. 

Meantime  stirring  events  were  occurring  in  the  colonies :  the 
Provincial  Congress,  which  now  governed  Massa(>husetts,  had 
ordered  the  enrollment  of  20,000  minute-men  ;  provisions,  arms, 
and  ammunition  were  being  purchased  and  collected :  General 
Gage,  alarmed  at  the  threatening  aspect  of  affairs,  had  begun  to 
erect  fortifications  for  his  defence ;  and  within  a  month  of  the 
time  when  Burke  delivered  his  Speech  on  Conciliation,  Lexington 
was  fought. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES,         3 

EDMUND  BURKE'S  SPEECH. 
I  HOPE,  Sir,  that  notwithstanding  the  austerity  ^  of  the 

Chair,  your  ffood  nature  will  incline  you  to  some 

r.  .     1    1  /    M  AT         TheIntbo- 

degree  of  indulgence  towards  human  frailty.      1  ou   duction 

will  not  think  it  unnatural  that  those  who  have  an 
object  depending,  which  strongly  engages  their  hopes  and 
fears,  should  be  somewhat  inclined  to  superstition.  As  I 
came  into  the  House  full  of  anxiety  about  the  event  ^  of  my 
motion,  I  found,  to  my  infinite  surprise,  that  the  grand 
penal  bill,^  by  which  we  had  passed  sentence  on  the  trade 
and  sustenance  of  America,  is  to  be  returned  to  us  *  from 
the  other  House.  I  do  confess  I  could  not  help  looking  on 
this  event  as  a  fortunate  omen.  I  look  upon  it  as  a  sort  of 
providential  favor,  by  which  we  are  put  once  more  in  pos- 
session of  our  deliberative  capacity  upon  a  business  so  very 
questionable  in  its  nature,  so  very  uncertain  in  its  issue. 
By  the  return  of  this  bill,  which  seemed  to  have  taken  its 
flight  forever,  we  are  at  this  very  instant  nearly  j  Renewed 
as  free  to  choose  a  plan  for  our  American  Gov-  ^J^^o^^De- 
ernment  as  we  were  on  the  first  day  of  the  session,   liberation. 

1  austerity,  i.  c,  your  dignity  as  Chairman  of  the  House. 

2  event  =  outcome  or  result. 

8  grand  penal  bill,  i.  e.,  "  an  Act  to  restrain  the  trade  and 
commerce  of  the  Provinces  of  Massachusetts  Bay  and  New 
Hampshire  and  the  colonies  of  Connecticut  and  Rhode  Island 
and  Providence  Plantation  in  North  America,  to  Great  Britain, 
Ireland,  and  the  British  Islands  in  the  West  Indies;  and  to 
prohibit  such  Provinces  and  colonies  from  carrying  on  any  fish- 
ery on  the  Banks  of  New  Foundland  and  other  places  therein 
mentioned  under  certain  conditions  and  Hmitations."  The  latter 
purt  of  this  bill  was  especially  hateful  to  the  colonies,  in  view 
ot  what  Burke  says  about  the  importance  of  the  fisheries. 

*  is  to  be  returned  to  us,  i.  e.,  the  bill  had,  according  to 
English  parliamentary  procedure,  been  sent  to  the  House  of  Lords 
for  consideration  ;  but  failing  of  approval,  it  had  been  returned 
with  an  amendment  to  the  House  in  which  it  had  originated. 


4  EDMUND  BURKE. 

If,  Sir,  we  incline  to  the  side  of  conciliation,  we  are  not  at 
all  embarrassed  (unless  we  please  to  make  ourselves  so)  by 
any  incongruous  mixture  of  coercion  and  restraint.  We 
are  therefore  called  upon,  as  it  were  by  a  superior  warning 
We  are  voice,  again  to  attend  to  America;  to  attend  to 
to^attendto  *^®  whole  of  it  together  ;  and  to  review  the  sub- 
America,       ject  with  an  unusual  degree  of  care  and  calmness. 

2.  Surely  it  is  an  awful  subject,  or  there  is  none  so  on 

this   side  of  the   ffrave.     When  I  first  had  the 
n.  The  .  *     . 

"Awful-       honor  of  a  seat  in  this  House,  the  affairs  of  that 

ness"of  .  Ill 

the  Sub-  contment  pressed  themselves  upon  us  as  the  most 
important  and  most  delicate  ^  object  of  Parlia- 
mentary attention.  My  little  share  in  this  great  delibera- 
tion oppressed  me.  I  found  myself  a  partaker  in  a  very 
high  trust ;  and,  having  no  sort  of  reason  to  rely  on  the 
strength  of  my  natural  abilities  for  the  proper  execution  of 
that  trust,  I  was  obliged  to  take  more  than  common  pains 
to  instruct  myself  in  everything  which  relates  to  our  colo- 
nies. I  was  not  less  under  the  necessity  of  forming  some 
fixed  ideas  concerning  the  general  policy  of  the  British 
Empire.  Something  of  this  sort  seemed  to  be  indispensa- 
ble, in  order,  amidst  so  vast  a  fluctuation  of  passions  and 
opinions,  to  concentre  my  thoughts,  to  ballast  my  conduct, 
to  preserve  me  from  being  blown  about  by  every  wind  ^  of 
fashionable  doctrine.  I  really  did  not  think  it  safe  or 
manly  to  have  fresh  principles  to  seek  upon  every  fresh 
mail  which  should  arrive  from  America. 

3.  At  that  period  ^  I  had  the  fortune  to  find  myself  in 
My  Senti-  perfect  concurrence  with  a  large  majority  in  this 
Serfund?  House.  Bowing  under  that  high  authority,  and 
viating.  penetrated  with  the  sharpness  and  strength  of 
that  early  impression,  I  have  continued  ever  since,  without 

^  delicate,  i.  c,  requiring  care  in  its  treatment. 
^  by  every  wind.    See  Ephesians  iv.  14. 
«  At  that  period;  referring  to  the  repeal  of  the  Stamp  Ad 
early  in  1766. 


CONCILIATION   WITH  THE  COLONIES.         5 

the  least  deviation,  in  my  original  sentiments.  Whether 
this  be  owing  to  an  obstinate  perseverance  in  error,  or  to  a 
religious  adherence  to  what  appears  to  me  truth  and  reason, 
it  is  in  your  equity  to  judge. 

4.  Sir,  Parliament,  having  an  enlarged  view  of  objects, 
made  during  this  interval  more  frequent  changes  Parliament 
in  their  sentiments  and  their  conduct  than  could  ^re^ent 
be  justified  in  a  particular  jDerson  upon  the  con-  Changes. 
tracted  scale  of  private  informrtion.  But  though  I  do  not 
hazard  anything  approaching  to  a  censure  on  the  motives 
of  former  Parliaments  to  all  those  alterations,  one  fact  is 
undoubted  —  that  under  them  the  state  of  America  has 
been  kept  in  continual  agitation.  Everything  administered 
as  remedy  to  the  public  complaint,  if  it  did  not  produce, 
was  at  least  followed  by,  an  heightening  of  the  distemper ; 
until,  by  a  variety  of  experiments,  that  important  country 
has  been  brought  into  her  present  situation  ^  —  a  situation 
which  I  will  not  miscall,  which  I  dare  not  name,  which  I 
scarcely  know  how  to  comprehend  in  the  terms  of  any 
description. 

5.  In  this  posture,  Sir,  things  stood  at  the  beginning  of 
the  session.  About  that  time,  a  worthy  member  ^  of  great 
Parliamentary  experience,  who,  in  the  year  1766,  filled  the 
chair  of  the  American  committee  with  much  ability,  took 
me  aside ;  and,  lamenting  the  present  aspect  of  our  politics, 
told  me  things  were  come  to  such  a  pass  that  our  former 
methods  of  proceeding  in  the  House  would  be  no  longer 
tolerated  :  that  the  public  tribunal  (never  too  indulgent  to 
a  long  and  unsuccessful  opposition)  would  now  scrutinize 
our  conduct  with  unusual   severity  :  that   the  very  vicissi- 

1  her  present  situation.  At  the  very  time  Burke  was 
speaking,  the  people  of  the  colonies  were  preparing  for  war  in 
earnest,  collecting  powder,  weapons,  and  provisions,  recruiting 
and  arming  the  *'  minute-men."  General  Gage,  alarmed  at  the 
threatening  aspect  of  affairs,  had  begun  to  erect  fortifications; 
Lexington  was  fought  within  a  month. 

"  -wrorthy  member;  Mr.  Rose  Fuller. 


6  EDMUND  BURKE. 

tudes  and  shiftlngs  of  Ministerial  measures,  instead  of 
convicting  their  authors  of  inconstancy  and  want  of  system, 
would  be  taken  as  an  occasion  of  charging  us  with  a  prede- 
termined discontent,  which  nothing  could  satisfy ;  whilst 
we  accused  every  measure  of  vigor  as  cruel,  and  every 
proposal  of  lenity  as  weak  and  irresolute.  The  public,  he 
said,  would  not  have  patience  to  see  us  play  the  game  out 
with  our  adversaries ;  we  must  produce  our  hand.  It  would 
III.  The  ^®  expected  that  those  who  for  many  years  had 
forTrfxed  ^®®^  active  in  such  affairs  should  show  that  they 
Policy.  had  formed  some  clear  and  decided  idea  of  the 
principles  of  colony  government ;  and  were  capable  of 
drawing  out  something  like  a  platform  ^  of  the  ground 
which  might  be  laid  for  future  and  permanent  tranquillity. 

6.  I  felt  the  truth  of  what  my  honorable  friend  repre- 
sented ;  but  I  felt  my  situation  too.  His  application  might 
have  been  made  with  far  greater  propriety  to  many  other 
gentlemen.  No  man  was  indeed  ever  better  disposed,  or 
worse  qualified,  for  such  an  undertaking  than  myself. 
Though  I  gave  so  far  in  to  his  opinion  that  I  immediately 
threw  my  thoughts  into  a  sort  of  Parliamentary  form,  I 
was  by  no  means  equally  ready  to  produce  them.  It  gen- 
erally argues  some  degree  of  natural  impotence  of  mind,  or 
some  want  of  knowledge  of  the  world,  to  hazard  plans  of 
government  except  from  a  seat  of  authority.  Propositions 
£vre  made,  not  only  ineffectually,  but  somewhat  disreputa- 
bly,*^  when  the  minds  of  men  are  not  properly  disposed  for 
their  reception  ;  and,  for  my  part,  I  am  not  ambitious  of 
ridicule  ;  not  absolutely  a  candidate  for  disgrace. 

7.  Besides,  Sir,  to  speak  the  plain  truth,  I  have  in  gen- 
eral no  very  exalted  opinion  of  the  virtue  of  paper  govern- 
ment ;  nor  of  any  politics  in  which  the  plan  is  to  be  wholly 
separated  from  the  execution.     But  when  I  saw  that  anger 

*  platform  =r  plan. 

2  disreputably,  i.  e.,  the  maker  of  the  proposition  falls  into 
disrepute  or  discredit. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.         7 

and  violence  prevailed  every  day  more  and  more,  and  that 
things  were  hastening  towards  an  incurable  alienation  of 
our  colonies,  I  confess  my  caution  gave  way.  I  felt  this 
as  one  of  those  few  moments  in  which  decorum  yields  to  a 
higher  duty.  Public  calamity  is  a  mighty  leveller ;  and 
there  are  occasions  when  any,  even  the  slightest,  chance  of 
doing  good  must  be  laid  hold  on,  even  by  the  most  incon- 
siderable person. 

8.  To  restore  order  and  repose  to  an  empire  so  great 
and  so  distracted  as  ours,  is,  merely  in  the  attempt,  an 
undertaking  that  would  ennoble  the  flights  of  the  highest 
genius,  and  obtain  pardon  for  the  efforts  of  the  mean- 
est understanding.  Struggling  a  good  while  with  these 
thoughts,  by  degrees  I  felt  myself  more  firm.  I  derived, 
at  length,  some  confidence  from  what  in  other  circum- 
stances usually  produces  timidity.  I  grew  less  anxious, 
even  from  the  idea  of  my  own  insignificance.  For,  judging 
of  what  you  are  by  what  you  ought  to  be,  I  persuaded 
myself  that  you  would  not  reject  a  reasonable  proposition 
because  it  had  nothing  but  its  reason  to  recommend  it. 
On  the  other  hand,  being  totally  destitute  of  all  shadow  of 
influence,  natural  or  adventitious,  I  was  very  sure  that,  if 
my  proposition  were  futile  or  dangerous  —  if  it  were 
weakly  conceived,  or  improperly  timed  —  there  was  nothing 
exterior  to  it  of  power  to  awe,  dazzle,  or  delude  you.  You 
will  see  it  just  as  it  is  ;  and  you  will  treat  it  just  as  it 
deserves. 

9.  The  proposition  is    peace.     Not  peace    through   the 
medium  of  war ;  not  peace  to  be  hunted  through   jy  -^ 
the  labyrinth  of    intricate    and    endless   negotia-   fj^^PJ^' 
tions ;  not  peace  to  arise  out  of  universal  discord   Peace, 
fomented,  from  principle,  in  all  parts  of  the  empire;  not 
peace  to  depend  on  the  juridical  determination  of  perplex- 
ing questions,  or  the  precise  marking  the  shadowy  bounda- 
ries of  a  complex  government.     It  is  simple  peace ;  sought 
in  its  natural  course,  and  in  its  ordinary  haunts.     It  is 


8  EDMUND  BURKE. 

peace  sought  in  the  spirit  of  peace,  and  laid  in  principles 
purely  pacific.  I  propose,  by  removing  the  ground  of  the 
difference,  and  by  restoring  the  former  unsuspecting  con' 
fidence'^  of  the  colonies  in  the  Mother  Country^  to  give 
permanent  satisfaction  to  your  people ;  and  (far  from  a 
scheme  of  ruling  by  discord)  to  reconcile  them  to  each 
other  in  the  same  act  and  by  the  bond  of  the  very  same 
interest  which  reconciles  them  to  British  government. 

10.  My  idea  is  nothing  more.  Refined  policy  ever  has 
been  the  parent  of  confusion ;  and  ever  will  be  so,  as  long 
as  the  world  endures.  Plain  good  intention,  which  is 
as  easily  discovered  at  the  first  view  as  fraud  is  surely 
detected  at  last,  is,  let  me  say,  of  no  mean  force  in  the 
government  of  mankind.  Genuine  simplicity  of  heart  is 
an  healing  and  cementing  principle.  My  plan,  therefore, 
being  formed  upon  the  most  simple  grounds  imaginable, 
may  disappoint  some  people  when  they  hear  it.  It  has 
nothing  to  recommend  it  to  the  pruriency  of  curious  ears. 
There  is  nothing  at  all  new  and  captivating  in  it.  It  has 
nothing  of  the  splendor  of  the  project  ^  which  has  been 
lately  laid  upon  your  table  by  the  noble  lord  in  the  blue 
ribbon.^  It  does  not  propose  to  fill  your  lobby  with  squab- 
bling colony  agents,*  who  will  require  the  interposition  of 
your  mace,  at  every  instant,  to  keep  the  peace  amongst 
them.      It    does   not    institute   a   magnificent    auction   of 

^  unsuspecting  confidence.  This  expression  was  used  by 
the  Congress  at  Philadelphia  to  express  the  state  of  feeling  in 
the  colonies  after  the  repeal  of  the  Stamp  Act. 

2  the  project.  See  Historical  Note  —  referring  to  Lord 
North's  project. 

8  lord  in  the  blue  ribbon  ;  referring  to  Lord  North  — 
a  Knight  of  the  Garter.  The  badge  of  the  order  was  a  blue 
ribbon. 

*  colony  agents.  Since  the  colonies  had  no  direct  repre- 
sentatives in  Parliament  they  engaged  some  particular  member 
to  look  after  their  interests.  Burke  was  such  an  agent  for  a 
short  time  for  New  York. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.         9 

finance,  where  captivated  provinces  come  to  general  ransom 
by  bidding  against  each  other,  until  you  knock  down  the 
hammer,  and  determine  a  proportion  of  payments  beyond 
all  the  powers  of  algebra  to  equalize  and  settle. 

11.  The  plan  which  I  shall  presume  to  suggest  derives, 
however,  one  great  advantage    from   the  proposition  and 
registry  of  that  noble  lord's  project.    The  idea  of  y  pariia- 
coaciliation  is   admissible.     First,  the  House,  in  ment  has 

'  already 

accepting:  the  resolution  moved  by  the  noble  lord,^  granted  that 

,      .         ,  .  ,  T  1  •  Conciliation 

has    admitted,     notwithstandmg    the    menacing   isAdmis- 
front  of  our  address,^  notwithstanding  our  heavy 
bills  of  pains  and   penalties  —  that  we  do  not  think  our- 
selves precluded  from  all  ideas  of  free  grace  and  bounty. 

12.  The  House  has  gone  farther;  it  has  declared  con- 
ciliation admissible,  previous  to  any  submission  on  the  part 
of  America.  It  has  even  shot  a  good  deal  beyond  that 
mark,  and  has  admitted  that  the  complaints  of  our  former 
mode  of  exerting  the  right  of  taxation  were  not  wholly 
unfounded.  That  right  thus  exerted  is  allowed  to  have 
something  reprehensible  in  it,  something  unwise,  or  some- 
thing grievous  ;  since,  in  the  midst  of  our  heat  and  resent- 
ment, we,  of  ourselves,  have  proposed  a  capital  alteration ; 
and  in  order  to  get  rid  of  what  seemed  so  very  exception- 
able, have  instituted  a  mode  that  is  altogether  new;  one 
that  is,  indeed,  wholly  alien  from  all  the  ancient  methods 
and  forms  of  Parliament. 

13.  The  principle  of  this  proceeding  is  large  enough  for 

1  resolution  moved  by  the  noble  lord  ;  referring  to 
Lord  North's  scheme  of  conciliation. 

2  menacing  front  of  our  address.  Lord  North  had  moved 
that  an  address  be  presented  to  his  Majesty,  thanking  him  for 
submitting  papers  relating  to  disturbances  in  America;  declar- 
ing that  Massachusetts  Bay  was  in  a  state  of  rebellion;  beseech- 
ing his  Majesty  to  take  effectual  measures  to  enforce  obedience; 
and  finally  assuring  him  of  their  fixed  determination  to  stand  by 
his  Majesty  at  the  risk  of  their  lives  and  property  against  all 
rebellious  attempts. 


10  EDMUND  BURKE. 

my  purpose.  The  means  proposed  by  the  noble  lord  for 
carrying  his  ideas  into  execution,  I  think,  indeed,  are  very 
indifferently  suited  to  th^  end ;  and  this  I  shall  endeavor 
to  show  ^  you  before  I  sit  down.  But,  for  the  present,  I 
take  my  ground  on  the  admitted  principle.  I  mean  to  give 
peace.  Peace  implies  reconciliation ;  and  where  there  has 
been  a  material  dispute,  reconciliation  does  in  a  manner 
always  imply  concession  on  the  one  part  or  on  the  other. 
In  this  state  of  things  I  make  no  difficulty  in  affirming 
that  the  proposal  ought  to  originate  from  us.  Great  and 
acknowledged  force  is  not  impaired,  either  in  effect  or  in 
opinion,  by  an  unwillingness  to  exert  itself.  The  superior 
power  may  offer  peace  with  honor  and  with  safety.  Such 
an  offer  from  such  a  power  will  be  attributed  to  magnanim- 
ity. But  the  concessions  of  the  weak  are  the  concessions 
oi  fear.  When  such  an  one  is  disarmed,  he  is  wholly  at  the 
fcuercy  of  his  superior ;  and  he  loses  forever  that  time  and 
those  chances,  which,  as  they  happen*  to  all  men,  are  the 
strength  and  resources  of  all  inferior  power. 

14.  The  capital  leading  questions  on  which  you  must 
TheDevel-  *^is  ^^y  decide,  are  these  two  :  First,  whether 
tn^^iio  y^^  ought  to  concede  ;  and  secondly,  what  your 
Whether       concession  ouffht   to  be.     On    the   first   of  these 

you  ought  ,  »  .        i  t    i  •      .  -i 

to  concede?   questions  we    have    gained,  as  i  have  just    taken 

What  your       ,         ,.,  CI*  1 

concession  the  liberty  01  observing  to  you,  some  ground. 
oug  0  e.  -g^^  J  ^^  sensible  that  a  good  deal  more  is  still 
to  be  done.  Indeed,  Sir,  to  enable  us  to  determine  both  on 
the  one  and  the  other  of  these  great  questions  with  a  firm 
and  precise  judgment,  I  think  it  may  be  necessary  to 
consider  distinctly  the  true  nature  and  the  peculiar  circum- 
stances of  the  object  which  we  have  before  us ;  because 
after  all  our  struggle,  whether  we  will  or  not,  we  must 
govern  America  according  to  that  nature  and  to  those  cir- 
cumstances, and  not  according  to  our  own  imaginations, 
HOP  according  to  abstract  ideas  of  right  —  by  no  means 
1  I  shall  endeavor  to  show.    See  page  69. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.      11 

according  to  mere  general  theories  of  government,  the 
resort  to  which  appears  to  me,  in  our  present  situation,  no 
better  than  arrant  trifling.  I  shall  therefore  endeavor, 
with  your  leave,  to  lay  before  you  some  of  the  most  mate- 
rial of  these  circumstances  in  as  full  and  as  clear  a  manner 
as  I  am  able  to  state  them. 

15.  The  first  thing  we  have  to  consider  with  regard  to 
the  nature  of  the  object  is  the  number  of  people   ^  ^^^ 
in  the  colonies.     I  have  taken  for  some  years  a   ther  you 

•^  OUGHT  TO 

good  deal  of  pains  on  that  point.  I  can  by  no  co^edb? 
calculation  justify  myself  in  placing  the  number  popula- 
below  two  millions  of  inhabitants  of  our  own  Euro- 
pean blood  and  color,  besides  at  least  five  hundred  thousand 
others,  who  form  no  inconsiderable  part  of  the  strength 
and  opulence  of  the  whole.  This,  Sir,  is,  I  believe,  about 
the  true  number.  There  is  no  occasion  to  exaggerate 
where  plain  truth  is  of  so  much  weight  and  importance. 
But  whether  I  put  the  present  numbers  too  high  or  too  low 
is  a  matter  of  little  moment.  Such  is  the  strength  with 
which  population  shoots  in  that  part  of  the  world,  that, 
state  the  numbers  as  high  as  we  will,  whilst  the  dispute 
continues,  the  exaggeration  ends.  Whilst  we  are  discuss- 
ing any  given  magnitude,  they  are  grown  to  it.  Whilst  we 
spend  our  time  in  deliberating  on  the  mode  of  governing 
two  millions,  we  shall  find  we  have  millions  more  to  man-i 
age.  Your  children  do  not  grow  faster  from  infancy  to 
manhood  than  they  spread  from  families  to  communities, 
and  from  villages  to  nations. 

16.  I  put  this  consideration  of  the  present  and  the  grow 
ing  numbers  in  the  front  of  our  deliberation,  because.  Sir, 
this  consideration  will  make  it  evident  to  a  blunter  dis- 
cernment than  yours,  that  no  partial,^  narrow,  contracted, 
pinched,  occasional  system  will  be  at  all  suitable  to  such 

^  partial  system.  Observe  how  the  author  characterizes 
Parliament's  system.  H^e  desired  to  give  permanent  tranquil- 
lity. 


12  EDMUND  BURKE. 

an  object.  It  will  show  you  that  it  is  not  to  be  considered 
as  one  of  those  minima'^  which  are  out  of  the  eye  and 
consideration  of  the  law ;  not  a  paltry  excrescence  of  the 
state  ;  not  a  mean  dependant,  who  may  be  neglected  with 
little  damage  and  provoked  with  little  danger.  It  will 
prove  that  some  degree  of  care  and  caution  is  required  in 
the  handling  such  an  object ;  it  will  show  that  you  ought 
not,  in  reason,  to  trifle  with  so  large  a  mass  of  the  interests 
and  feelings  of  the  human  race.  You  could  at  no  time  do 
so  without  guilt ;  and  be  assured  you  will  not  be  able  to 
do  it  long  with  impunity. 

17.  But  the  population  of  this  country,  the  great  and 
n.  The  In-  growing  population,  though  a  very  important 
i^(?oM-^'  consideration,  will  lose  much  of  its  weight  if 
MERGE.  not  combined  with  other  circumstances.  The 
commerce  of  your  colonies  is  out  of  all  proportion  beyond 
the  numbers  of  the  people.  This  ground  of  their  com- 
merce indeed  has  been  trod  ^  some  days  ago,  and  with  great 
ability,  by  a  distinguished  person  at  your  bar.  This  gentle- 
man,^ after  thirty-five  years  —  it  is  so  long  since  he  first 
appeared  at  the  same  place  to  plead  for  the  commerce  of 
Great  Britain  —  has  come  again  before  you  to  plead  the  same 
cause,  without  any  other  effect  of  time,  than  that  to  the  fire 
of  imagination  and  extent  of  erudition  which  even  then 
marked  him  as  one  of  the  first  literary  characters  of  his 
age,  he  has  added  a  consummate  knowledge  in  the  com- 
mercial interest  of  his  country,  formed  by  a  long  course  of 
enlightened  and  discriminating  experience. 

18.  Sir,  I  should  be  inexcusable  in  coming  after  such  a 
person  with  any  detail,  if  a  great  part  of  the  members  who 

1  minima  :=  things  of  trifling  consequence. 

2  ground  has  .  .  .  been  trod  =  the  matter  has  been  treated 
or  presented. 

^  this  gentlema?!;  Mr.  Glover  —  author  of  the  two  epics 
Leonidas  and  the  Atheniad,  and  the  tragedies  Boadicea  and 
Medea. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       13 

now  fill  the  House  had  not  the  misfortune  to  be  absent 
when  he  appeared  at  your  bar.  Besides,  Sir,  I  propose  to 
take  the  matter  at  periods  of  time  somewhat  different  from 
his.  There  is,  if  I  mistake  not,  a  point  of  view  from 
whence,  if  you  will  look  at  tlie  subject,  it  is  impossible  that 
it  should  not  make  an  impression  upon  you. 

19.  I  have  in  my  hand  two  accounts  ;  one  a  comparative 
state  ^  of  the  export  trade  of  England  to  its  colonies,  as  it 
stood  in  the  year  1 704,  and  as  it  stood  in  the  year  1772  ; 
the  other  a  state  of  the  export  trade  of  this  country  to  its 
colonies  alone,  as  it  stood  in  1772,  compared  with  the  whole 
trade  of  England  to  all  parts  of  the  world  (the  colonies 
included)  in  the  year  1704.  They  are  from  good  vouchers ; 
the  latter  period  from  the  accounts  on  your  table,  the  ear- 
lier from  an  original  manuscript  of  Davenant,  who  first 
established  the  Inspector-General's  office,  which  has  been 
ever  since  his  time  so  abundant  a  source  of  Parliamentary 
information. 

20.  The  export  trade  to  the  colonies  consists  of  three 
great  branches :  the  African  —  which,  terminating  almost 
wholly  in  the  colonies,  must  be  put  to  the  account  of  their 
commerce,  —  the  West  Indian,  and  the  North  American. 
All  these  are  so  interwoven  that  the  attempt  to  separate 
them  would  tear  to  pieces  the  contexture  of  the  whole ; 
and,  if  not  entirely*  destroy,  would  very  much  depreciate 
the  value  of  all  the  parts.  I  therefore  consider  these  three 
denominations  to  be,  what  in  effect  they  are,  one  trade. 

21.  The  trade  to  the  colonies,  taken  on  the  export  side, 
at  the  beginning  of  this  century,  that  is,  in  the  year  1704, 
stood  thus :  — 

Exports  to  North  America  and  the  West  Indies       £483,265 
To  Africa 86,665 


£569,930 


^  comparative  state  =  statement. 


14  EDMUND  BURKE. 

22.  In  the  year  1772,  which  I  take  as  a  middle  year 
between  the  highest  and  lowest  of  those  lately  laid  on  your 
table,  the  account  was  as  follows  :  — 

To  North  America  and  the  West  Indies     .     .  £4,791,734: 

To  Africa 866,398 

To  which,  if  you  add  the  export  trade  from 

Scotland,  which  had  in  1704  no  existence     .  364,000 


£6,022,132 


23.  From  five  hundred  and  odd  thousand,  it  has  grown 
to  six  millions.  It  has  increased  no  less  than  twelve-fold. 
This  is  the  state  of  the  colony  trade  as  compared  with 
itself  at  these  two  periods  within  this  century ;  —  and  thif 
is  matter  for  meditation.  But  this  is  not  all.  Examine 
my  second  account.  See  how  the  export  trade  to  the  colo- 
nies alone  in  1772  stood  in  the  other  point  of  view ;  that 
is,  as  compared  to  the  whole  trade  of  England  in  1704 :  — 

The  whole  export  trade  of  England,  including 

that  to  the  colonies,  in  1704        £6,509,000 

Export  to  the  colonies  alone,  in  1772       .     .     .        6,024,000 

Difference,        £485,000 

24.  The  trade  with  America  alone  is  now  within  less 
than  £500,000  of  being  equal  to  what  this  great  commercial 
nation,  England,  carried  on  at  the  beginning  of  this  century 
with  the  whole  world  !  If  I  had  taken  the  largest  year  o£ 
those  on  your  table,  it  would  rather  have  exceeded.  But, 
it  will  be  said,  is  not  this  American  trade  an  unnatural 
protuberance,  that  has  drawn  the  juices  from  the  rest  of 
the  body?  The  reverse.  It  is  the  very  food  that  has 
nourished  every  other  part  into  its  present  magnitude. 
Our  general  trade  has  been  greatly  augmented,  and  aug- 
mented more  or  less  in  almost  every  part  to  which  it  ever 
extended ;  but  with  this  material  difference,  that  of  the  six 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       15 

millions  which  in  the  beginning  of  the  century  constituted 
the  whole  mass  of  our  export  commerce,  the  colony  trade 
was  but  one-twelfth  part ;  it  is  now  (as  a  part  of  sixteen 
millions)  considerably  more  than  a  third  of  the  whole. 
This  is  the  relative  proportion  of  the  importance  of  the 
colonies  at  these  two  periods  ;  and  all  reasoning  concerning 
our  mode  of  treating  them  must  have  this  proportion  as  its 
basis ;  or  it  is  a  reasoning  weak,  rotten,  and  sophistical. 

25.  Mr.  Speaker,  I  cannot  prevail  on  myself  to  hurry 
over  this  great  consideration.  It  is  good  for  us  to  be  here.^ 
We  stand  where  we  have  an  immense  view  of  what  is,  and 
what  is  past.  Clouds,  indeed,  and  darkness,  rest  upon  the 
future.  Let  us,  however,  before  we  descend  from  this 
noble  eminence,  reflect  that  this  growth  of  our  national 
prosperity  has  happened  within  the  short  period  of  the  life 
of  man.  It  has  happened  within  sixty-eight  years.  There 
are  those  alive  whose  memory  might  touch  the  two  extrem- 
ities. For  instance,  my  Lord  Bathurst  might  remember  all 
the  stages  of  the  progress.  He  was  in  1704  of  an  age  at 
least  to  be  made  to  comprehend  such  things.  He  was  then 
old  enough  acta  parentum  jam  legere,  et  quce  sit  poterit 
cognoscere  virtus.'^  Suppose,  Sir,  that  the  angel  of  this 
auspicious  youth,  foreseeing  the  many  virtues  which  made 
him  one  of  the  most  amiable,  as  he  is  one  of  the  most 
fortunate,  men  of  his  age,  had  opened  to  him  in  vision  that 
when  in  the  fourth  generation'  the  third  Prince  of  the 
House  of  Brunswick  had  sat  twelve  years  on  the  throne  of 
that  nation  which,  by  the  happy  issue  of  moderate  and 
healing  counsels,  was  to  be  made  Great  Britain,*  he  should 

^  It  is  good  for  us  to  be  here.     See  Mark  ix.  5. 

^  acta  parentum  jam  legere,  etc.  =  "to  read  the  deeds  of 
his  forefathers  and  to  know  what  manly  worth  is."  From 
Virgil's  Fourth  Eclogue,  26,  27. 

8  fourth  generation ;  George  III.  was  the  grandson  of 
George  II. 

*  made  Great  Britain ;  Scotland  was  united  with  England 
in  1707. 


16  EDMUND  BURKE. 

see  his  son,  Lord  Chancellor  of  England,  turn  back  the 
current  of  hereditary  dignity  to  its  fountain,  and  raise  him 
to  a  higher  rank  ^  of  peerage,  whilst  he  enriched  the  family 
with  a  new  one  —  if,  amidst  these  bright  and  happy  scenes 
of  domestic  honor  and  prosperity,  that  angel  should  have 
drawn  up  the  curtain,  and  unfolded  the  rising  glories  of  his 
country,  and,  whilst  he  was  gazing  with  admiration  on  the 
then  commercial  grandeur  of  England,  the  genius  should 
point  out  to  him  a  little  speck,  scarcely  visible  in  the  mass 
of  the  national  interest,  a  small  seminal  principle,  rather 
than  a  formed  body,  and  should  tell  him :  "  Young  man, 
there  is  America  —  which  at  this  day  serves  for  little  more 
than  to  amuse  you  with  stories  of  savage  men,  and  uncouth 
manners ;  yet  shall,  before  you  taste  of  death,  show  itself 
equal  to  the  whole  of  that  commerce  which  now  attracts 
the  envy  of  the  world.  Whatever  England  has  been  grow- 
ing to  by  a  progressive  increase  of  improvement,  brought  in 
by  varieties  of  people,  by  succession  of  civilizing  conquests 
and  civilizing  settlements  in  a  series  of  seventeen  hundred 
years,  you  shall  see  as  much  added  to  her  by  America  in 
the  course  of  a  single  life !  "  If  this  state  of  his  country 
had  been  foretold  to  him,  would  it  not  require  all  the  san- 
guine credulity  of  youth,  and  all  the  fervid  glow  of  enthu- 
siasm, to  make  him  believe  it?  Fortunate  man,  he  has 
lived  to  see  it !  Fortunate,  indeed,  if  he  lives  to  see  no- 
thing that  shall  vary  the  prospect,  and  cloud  the  setting 
of  his  day  ! 

26.  Excuse  me.  Sir,  if  turning  from  such  thoughts  I 
resume  this  comparative  view  once  more.  You  have  seen 
it  on  a  large  scale ;  look  at  it  on  a  small  one.  I  will  point 
out  to  your  attention  a  particular  instance  of  it  in  the  single 
province  of  Pennsylvania.  In  the  year  1704  that  province 
called  for  £11,459  in  value  of  your  commodities,  native 
and  foreign.  This  was  the  whole.  What  did  it  demand 
in  1772  ?     Why,  nearly  fifty  times  as  much ;  for  in  that 

^  higher  rank  ;  Bathurst  was  made  Earl  in  1772. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES,       17 

year  the  export  to  Pennsylvania  was  £507,909,  nearly 
equal  to  the  export  to  all  the  colonies  together  in  the  first 
period. 

27.  I  choose,  Sir,  to  enter  into  these  minute  and  partic- 
ular details,  because  generalities,  which  in  all  other  cases 
are  apt  to  heighten  and  raise  the  subject,  have  here  a 
tendency  to  sink  it.  When  we  speak  of  the  commerce 
with  our  colonies,  fiction  lags  after  truth,^  invention  is 
unfruitful,  and  imagination  cold  and  barren. 

28.  So  far.  Sir,  as  to  the  importance  of  the  object,  in 
view  of  its  commerce,  as  concerned  in  the  exports  from 
England.  If  I  were  to  detail  the  imports,  I  could  show 
how  many  enjoyments  they  procure  which  deceive  ^  the 
burthen  of  life  ;  how  many  materials  which  invigorate  the 
.springs  of  national  industry,  and  extend  and  animate  every 
part  of  our  foreign  and  domestic  commerce.  This  would 
be  a  curious  subject  indeed ;  but  I  must  prescribe  bounds 
to  myself  in  a  matter  so  vast  and  various, 

29.  I  pass,  therefore,  to  the  colonies  in  another  point  of 
view,  their  agriculture.  This  they  have  prose-  2.  aoei- 
cnted  with  such  a  spirit,  that  besides  feeding  plen-  cultueb. 
tifully  their  own  growing  multitude,  their  annual  export  of 
grain,  comprehending  rice,  has  some  years  ago  exceeded  a 
million  in  value.  Of  their  last  harvest  I  am  persuaded 
they  will  export  much  more.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
century  some  of  these  colonies  imported  corn  ^  from  the 
mother  country.  For  some  time  past  the  Old  World  has 
been  fed  from  the  New.  The  scarcity  which  you  have  felt 
would  have  been  a  desolating  famine,  if  this  child  of  your 
old  age,  with  a  true  filial  piety,  with  a  Roman  charity,  had 

^  fiction  lags  after  truth  —  three  clauses  in  which  the 
author  amplifies  and  enforces  the  idea  that  imagination  cannot 
suggest  anything  more  wonderful  than  the  real  facts  of  the 
case. 

^  deceive  =  beguile. 

•  corn  =  grain. 


18  EDMUND  BURKE. 

not  put  t\ie  full  breast  ^  of  its  youthful  exuberance  to  the 
mouth  of  its  exhausted  parent. 

30.  As  to  the  wealth  which  the  colonies  have  drawn  from 
8.  Fish-  ^^®  ^^^  ^7  their  fisheries,  you  had  all  that  matter 
KKIE8.  fully  opened  at   your  bar.     You    surely  thought 

those  acquisitions  of  value,  for  they  seemed  even  to  excite 
your  envy ;  and  yet  the  spirit  by  which  that  enterprising 
employment  has  been  exercised  ought  rather,  in  my  opin- 
ion, to  have  raised  your  esteem  and  admiration.  And 
pray,  Sir,  what  in  the  world  is  equal  to  it  ?  Pass  by  the 
other  parts,  and  look  at  the  manner  in  which  the  people  of 
New  England  have  of  late  carried  on  the  whale  fishery. 
Whilst  we  follow  them  among  the  tumbling  mountains  ^  of 
ice,  and  behold  them  penetrating  into  the  deepest  frozen 
recesses  of  Hudson's  Bay  and  Davis's  Straits,  w^hilst  we 
are  looking  for  them  beneath  the  arctic  circle,  we  hear  that 
they  have  pierced  into  the  opposite  region  of  polar  cold, 
that  they  are  at  the  antipodes,  and  engaged  under  the 
frozen  Serpent  ^  of  the  south.  Falkland  Island,^  which 
seemed  too  remote  and  romantic  an  object  for  the  grasp  of 
national  ambition,  is  but  a  stage  and  resting-place  in  the 
progress  of  their  victorious  industry.  Nor  is  the  equinoc- 
tial heat  more  discouraging  to  them  than  the  accumulated 
winter  of  both  the  poles.     We  know  that  whilst  some  of 

1  Put  the  full  breast  ;  an  allusion  to  the  story  of  the 
Roman,  who,  condemned  to  death  by  starvation,  was  nourished 
by  his  daughter  from  her  own  breast. 

2  tumbling  mountains  ;  a  picturesque  epithet  of  the  author 
referring  to  a  phenomenon  seen  occasionally  by  sailors;  i.  e., 
icebergs  having  melted  away  under  water,  or  being  honeycombed 
by  it,  become  heavier  above  than  below  and  hence  "  tumble  " 
over. 

^  frozen  Serpent  of  the  South  ;  a  constellation  of  the  ant- 
arctic region.  The  word  "frozen"  is  Burke's  picturesque 
touch. 

^  Falkland  Island.  250  miles  northeast  of  Terra  del 
Fuego. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       19 

them  draw  the  line  and  strike  the  harpoon  on  the  coast 
of  Africa,  others  run  the  longitude  ^  and  pursue  their 
gigantic  game  along  the  coast  of  Brazil.  No  sea  but  what 
is  vexed  ^  by  their  fisheries  ;  no  climate  that  is  not  witness 
to  their  toils.  Neither  the  perseverance  of  Holland,  nor 
the  activity  of  France,  nor  the  dexterous  and  firm  sagacity 
of  English  enterprise  ever  carried  tliis  most  perilous  mode 
of  hardy  industry  to  the  extent  to  which  it  has  been 
pushed  by  this  recent  people ;  a  people  who  are  still,  as  it 
were,  but  in  the  gristle,  and  not  yet  hardened  into  the 
bone  of  manhood.  When  I  contemplate  these  things; 
when  I  know  that  the  colonies  in  general  owe  little  or 
nothing  to  any  care  of  ours,  and  that  they  are  not  squeezed 
into  this  happy  form  by  the  constraints  of  watchful  and 
suspicious  government,  but  that,  through  a  wise  and  salu- 
tary neglect,  a  generous  nature  has  been  suffered  to  take 
her  own  way  to  perfection ;  when  I  reflect  upon  these 
effects,  when  I  see  how  profitable  they  have  been  to  us,  I 
feel  all  the  pride  of  power  sink,  and  all  presumption  in  the 
wisdom  of  human  contrivances  melt  and  die  away  within 
me.  My  rigor  relents.  I  pardon  something  to  the  spirit 
of  liberty. 

31.  I  am  sensible.  Sir,  that  all  which  I  have  asserted  ip 
my  detail  is  admitted  in  the  gross  ;  but  that  quite  a  differ 
ent  conclusion  is  drawn  from  it.     America,  gen- 
tlemen  say,  is   a  noble  obiect.     It  is  an  obiect  tions  to 

THE  ICMPLOY^ 

well  worth  fighting  for.     Certainly  it  is,  if  fight-  ment  op 
ing  a  people  be  the  best  way  of  gaining  them. 
Gentlemen  in   this  respect  will  be   led  to  their  choice  of 
means  by  tliieir  complexions  ^  and  their  habits.     Those  who 
understand  the  military  art  will  of  course  have  some  pre- 

1  run  the  longitude ;  an  expression  the  precise  meaning  of 
which,  as  used  by  Burke,  is  difficult  to  determine.  It  is  not 
current  among  nautical  men  of  this  day. 

2  vexed  =  agitated. 

'  complexions  =  temperament 


20  EDMUND  BURKE. 

dilection  for  it.  Those  who  wield  the  thunder  of  the  state 
may  have  more  confidence  in  the  efficacy  of  arms.  But  I 
confess,  possibly  for  want  of  this  knowledge,  my  opinion  is 
much  more  in  favor  of  prudent  management  than  of  force  ; 
considering  force  not  as  an  odious,  but  a  feeble  instrument 
for  preserving  a  people  so  numerous,  so  active,  so  growing, 
so  spirited  as  this,  in  a  profitable  and  subordinate  connec-. 
tion  with  us. 

32.  First,  Sir,  permit  me  to  observe  that,  the  use  of 
force  alone  is  but  temjjorary.  It  may  subdue  for  a 
moment,  but  it  does  not  remove  the  necessity  of  subduing 
again ;  and  a  nation  is  not  governed  which  is  perpetually 
to  be  conquered. 

33.  My  next  objection  is  its  uncertainty.  Terror  is  not 
always  the  effect  of  force,  and  an  armament  is  not  a  vic- 
tory. If  you  do  not  succeed,  you  are  without  resource; 
for,  conciliation  failing,  force  remains ;  but,  force  failing, 
no  further  hope  of  reconciliation  is  left.  Power  and 
authority  are  sometimes  bought  by  kindness  ;  but  they  can 
never  be  begged  as  alms  by  an  impoverished  and  defeated 
violence. 

34.  A  further  objection  to  force  is,  that  you  imjiair  the 
object  by  your  very  endeavors  to  preserve  it.  The  thing 
you  fought  for  is  not  the  thing  which  you  recover;  but 
depreciated,  sunk,  wasted,  and  consumed  in  the  contest. 
Nothing  less  will  content  me  than  whole  America.  I  do 
not  choose  to  consume  its  strength  along  with  our  own, 
because  in  all  parts  it  is  the  British  strength  that  I  con- 
sume. I  do  not  choose  to  be  caught  by  a  foreign  enemy 
at  the  end  of  this  exhausting  conflict ;  and  still  less  in  the 
midst  of  it.  I  may  escape ;  but  I  can  make  no  insurance 
against  such  an  event.  Let  me  add,  that  I  do  not  choose 
wholly  to  break  the  American  spirit;  because  it  is  the 
spirit  that  has  made  the  country. 

35.  Lastly,  we  have  no  sort  of  experience  in  favor  of 
force  as  an  instrument  in  the  rule  of  our  colonies.     Their 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       21 

growth  and  their  utility  has  been  owing  to  methods  alto- 
gether different.  Our  ancient  indulgence  has  been  said  to 
be  pursued  to  a  fault.  It  may  be  so.  But  we  know,  if 
feeling  is  evidence,  that  our  fault  was  more  tolerable  than 
our  attempt  to  mend  it ;  and  our  sin  far  more  salutary  than 
our  penitence. 

36.  These,  Sir,  are  my  reasons  for  not  entertaining  that 
high  opinion  of  untried  force  by  which  many  gentlemeuj 
for  whose  sentiments  in  other  particulars  I  have  great 
respect,  seem  to  be  so  greatly  captivated.  But  there  is  still 
behind  a  third  consideration  concerning  this  object  which 
serves  to  determine  my  opinion  on  the  sort  of  jjj  rpj^^. 
policy  which  ought  to  be  pursued  in  the  manage-  J^^^^hak- 
ment  of  America,  even  more  than  its  population   acter  of 

.  ^       ^  THE  PeO- 

and  its  commerce  —  I  mean  its  temper  and  char-  ple. 
acter. 

37.  In  this  character  of  the  Americans,  a  love  of  free- 
dom is  the  predominating  feature  which  marks  and  distin- 
guishes the  whole ;  and  as  an  ardent  is  always  a  jealous 
affection,  your  colonies  become  suspicious,  restive,  and 
untractable  whenever  they  see  the  least  attempt  to  wrest 
from  them  by  force,  or  shuffle  from  them  by  chicane,  what 
they  think  the  only  advantage  worth  living  for.  This 
fierce  spirit  of  liberty  is  stronger  in  the  English  colonies 
probably  than  in  any  other  people  of  the  earth,  and  this 
from  a  great  variety  of  powerful  causes  ;  which,  to  under- 
stand the  true  temper  of  their  minds  and  the  direction 
which  this  spirit  takes,  it  will  not  be  amiss  to  lay  open 
somewhat  more  largely. 

38.  First,  the  people  of  the  colonies  are  descendants  of 
Englishmen.      England,    Sir,  is    a  nation    which 

Still,  I  hope,  respects,  and  formerly  adored,  her  '  ^°^"  " 
freedom.  The  colonists  emigrated  from  you  when  this 
part  of  your  character  ^  was  most  predominant ;  and  they 

1  part  of  your  character,  i.  e.,  in  the  times  leading  up  to 
the  establishment  of  the  Commonwealth. 


22  EDMUND  BURKE. 

took  this  bias  and  direction  the  moment  they  parted  from 
your  hands.  They  are  therefore  not  only  devoted  to  lib- 
erty, but  to  liberty  according  to  English  ideas,  and  on 
English  principles.  Abstract  liberty,  like  other  mere  ab- 
stractions, is  not  to  be  found.  Liberty  inheres  in  some 
sensible  object ;  ^  and  every  nation  has  formed  to  itself 
some  favorite  point,  which  by  way  of  eminence  becomes  the 
criterion  of  their  happiness.  It  happened,  you  know.  Sir, 
that  the  great  contests  for  freedom  in  this  country  were 
from  the  earliest  times  chiefly  upon  the  question  of  taxing. 
Most  of  the  contests  in  the  ancient  commonwealths  turned 
primarily  on  the  right  of  election  of  magistrates ;  or  on  the 
balance  among  the  several  orders  of  the  state.  The  ques- 
tion of  money  was  not  with  them  so  immediate.  But  in 
England  it  was  otherwise.  On  this  point  of  taxes  the 
ablest  pens,  and  most  eloquent  tongues,  have  been  exer- 
cised; the  greatest  spirits  have  acted  and  suffered.  In 
order  to  give  the  fullest  satisfaction  concerning  the  impor- 
tance of  this  point,  it  was  not  only  necessary  for  those  who 
in  argument  defended  the  excellence  of  the  English  Con- 
stitution to  insist  on  this  privilege  of  granting  money  as  a 
dry  point  of  fact,  and  to  prove  that  the  right  had  been 
acknowledged  in  ancient  parchments  and  blind  usages  to 
reside  in  a  certain  body  called  a  House  of  Commons. 
They  went  much  farther ;  they  attempted  to  prove,  and 
they  succeeded,  that  in  theory  it  ought  to  be  so,  from  the 
particular  nature  of  a  House  of  Commons  as  an  immediate 
representative  of  the  people,  whether  the  old  records  had 
delivered  this  oracle  or  not.  They  took  infinite  pains  to 
inculcate,  as  a  fundamental  principle,  that  in  all  monarchies 
the  people  must  in  effect  themselves,  mediately  or  immedi- 
ately, possess  the  power  of  granting  their  own  money,  or 
no  shadow  of  libertv  can  subsist.  The  colonies  draw  from 
you,  as  with  their  life-blood,  these  ideas  and  principles, 

^sensible  objects: an  external   object,  —  an   object  that 
may  be  perceived  by  the  senses. 


CONCILIATION  WITH   THE  COLONIES.       23 

Their  love  of  liberty,  as  with  you,  fixed  and  attached  on 
this  specific  point  of  taxing.  Liberty  might  be  safe,  or 
might  be  endangered,  in  twenty  other  particulars,  without 
their  being  much  pleased  or  alarmed.  Here  they  felt  its 
pulse  I  and  as  they  found  that  beat,  they  thought  them- 
selves sick  or  sound.  I  do  not  say  whether  they  were  right 
or  wrong  in  applying  your  general  arguments  to  their  own 
case.  It  is  not  easy,  indeed,  to  make  a  monopoly  of  the^ 
orems  and  corollaries.  The  fact  is,  that  they  did  thus 
apply  those  general  arguments ;  and  your  mode  of  govern- 
ing them,  whether  through  lenity  or  indolence,  through 
wisdom  or  mistake,  confirmed  them  in  the  imagination  that 
they,  as  well  as  you,  had  an  interest  in  these  common 
principles. 

39.  They  were  further  confirmed  in  this  pleasing  error 
by  the  form  of  their  provincial  legislative  assem- 

11.  rr.,     .  11-  2.  Form  of 

blies.  iheir  governments  are  popular*  in  a  Govem- 
high  degree ;  some  are  merely  popular ;  in  all, 
the  popular  representative  is  the  most  weighty ;  and  this 
share  of  the  people  in  their  ordinary  government  never 
fails  to  inspire  them  with  lofty  sentiments,  and  with  a 
strong  aversion  from  ^  whatever  tends  to  deprive  them  of 
their  chief  importance. 

40.  If  anything  were  wanting  to  this  necessary  operation 
of  the  form  of  government,  reliction  would  have 

,  ,*.  -r.  ?.    .  T  3.  Religion 

given  it  a  complete  eiiect.  Keligion,  always  a  intne 
principle  of  energy,  in  this  new  people  is  no  way 
worn  out  or  impaired ;  and  their  mode  of  professing  it  is 
also  one  main  cause  of  this  free  spirit.  The  people  are 
Protestants ;  and  of  that  kind  which  is  the  most  adverse 
to  all  implicit  submission  of  mind  and  opinion.  This  is  a 
persuasion  not  only  favorable  to  liberty,  but  built  upon  it. 
I  do  not  think.  Sir,  that  the  reason  of  this   averseness  in 

^  governments  are  popular,  i.  e.,  controlled  by  the  people. 
2  aversion  from.     A  precise  etymological  form  which  was 
once  insisted  en. 


24  EDMUND  BURKE. 

the  dissenting  churches  from  all  that  looks  like  absolute 
government  is  so  much  to  be  sought  in  their  religious 
tenets,  as  in  their  history.  Every  one  knows  that  the 
Roman  Catholic  religion  is  at  least  coeval  with  most  of  the 
governments  where  it  prevails;  that  it. has  generally  gone 
hand  in  hand  with  them,  and  received  great  favor  and 
every  kind  of  support  from  authority.  The  Church  of 
England  too  was  formed  from  her  cradle  under  the  nursing 
care  of  regular  government.  But  the  dissenting  interests 
have  sprung  up  in  direct  opposition  to  all  the  ordinary 
powers  of  the  world,  and  could  justify  that  opposition  only 
on  a  strong  claim  to  natural  liberty.  Their  very  existence 
depended  on  the  powerful  and  unremitted  assertion  of  that 
claim.  All  Protestantism,  even  the  most  cold  and  passive, 
is  a  sort  of  dissent.  But  the  religion  most  prevalent  in 
our  northern  colonies  is  a  refinement  on  the  principle  of 
resistance ;  it  is  the  dissidence  of  dissent,^  and  the  pro- 
testantism of  the  Protestant  religion.  This  religion,  under 
a  variety  of  denominations  agreeing  in  nothing  but  in  the 
communion  of  the  spirit  of  liberty,  is  predominant  in  most 
of  the  northern  provinces,  where  the  Church  of  England, 
notwithstanding  its  legal  rights,  is  in  reality  no  more  than 
a  sort  of  private  sect,  not  composing  most  probably  the 
tenth  of  the  people.  The  colonists  left  England  when 
this  spirit  was  high,  and  in  the  emigrants  was  the  highest 
of  all ;  and  even  that  stream  of  foreigners  which  has  been 
constantly  flowing  into  these  colonies  has,  for  the  greatest 
part,  been  composed  of  dissenters  from  the  establishments 
of  their  several  countries,  who  have  brought  with  them  a 
temper  and  character  far  from  alien  to  that  of  the  people 
with  whom  they  mixed. 

41.  Sir,  I  can  perceive  by  their  manner  that  some  gen- 
tlemen object  to  the  latitude  of  this  description,  because  in 
the  southern  colonies  the  Church  of  England  forms  a  large 

1  dissidence  of  dissent  =:  dissent  of  dissent;  dissent  carried 
to  its  utmost. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE   COLONIES.       25 

body,  and  has  a  regular  establishment.  It  is  certainly  true. 
There  is,  however,  a  circumstance  attending  these  4  j,^^ 
colonies  which,  in  my  opinion,  fully  counterbal-  g^"fj.^^ 
ances  this  difference,  and  makes  the  spirit  of  lib-  ^^e  South, 
erty  still  more  high  and  haughty  than  in  those  to  the 
northward.  It  is  that  in  Virginia  and  the  Carolinas  they 
have  a  vast  multitude  of  slaves.  Where  this  is  the  case  in 
any  part  of  the  world,  those  who  are  free  are  by  far  the 
most  proud  and  jealous  of  their  freedom.  Freedom  is  to 
them  not  only  an  enjoyment,  but  a  kind  of  rank  and  privi- 
lege. Not  seeing  there,  that  freedom,  as  in  countries  where 
it  is  a  common  blessing  and  as  broad  and  general  as  the 
air,  may  be  united  with  much  abject  toil,  with  great  misery, 
with  all  the  exterior  of  servitude  ;  liberty  looks,  amongst 
them,  like  something  that  is  more  noble  and  liberal.  I 
do  not  mean.  Sir,  to  commend  the  superior  morality  of  this 
sentiment,  which  has  at  least  as  much  pride  as  virtue  in  it ; 
but  I  cannot  alter  the  nature  of  man.  The  fact  is  so  ; 
and  these  people  of  the  southern  colonies  are  much  more 
strongly,  and  with  an  higher  and  more  stubborn  spirit,  at- 
tached to  liberty  than  those  to  the  northward.  Such  were 
all  the  ancient  commonwealths ;  such  were  our  Gothic  an- 
cestors ;  such  in  our  days  were  the  Poles  ;  and  such  will  be 
all  masters  of  slaves,  who  are  not  slaves  themselves.  In 
such  a  people  the  haughtiness  of  domination  combines  with 
the  spirit  of  freedom,  fortifies  it,  and  renders  it  invincible. 

42.  Permit  me,  Sir,  to  add  another  circumstance  in  our 
colonies  which  contributes  no  mean  part  towards  5  Educa- 
the  growth  and  effect  of  this  untractable  spirit.  *^'°"- 
I  mean  their  education.  In  no  country  perhaps  in  the 
world  is  the  law  so  general  a  study.  The  profession  itself 
is  numerous  and  powerful ;  and  in  most  provinces  it  takes 
the  lead.  The  greater  number  of  the  deputies  sent  to  the 
Congress  were  lawyers.  But  all  who  read,  and  most  do 
read,  endeavor  to  obtain  some  smattering  in  that  science. 
I  have  been  told  by  an    eminent   bookseller,  that  in  no 


20  EDMUND  BURKE. 

branch  of  his  business,  after  tracts  of  popular  devotion, 
were  so  many  books  as  those  on  the  law  exported  to  the 
Planta-tions.  The  colonists  have  now  fallen  into  the  way 
of  printing  them  for  their  own  use.  I  hear  that  they  have 
sold  nearly  as  many  of  Blackstone's  Commentaries  in 
America  as  in  England.  General  Gage  marks  out  this  dis- 
position very  particularly  in  a  letter  on  your  table.  He 
states  that  all  the  people  in  his  government  are  lawyers,  or 
smatterers  in  law ;  and  that  in  Boston  they  have  been  ena- 
bled, by  successful  chicane,^  wholly  to  evade  many  parts  of 
one  of  your  capital  penal  constitutions.  The  smartness 
of  debate  will  say  that  this  knowledge  ought  to  teach  them 
more  clearly  the  rights  of  legislature,  their  obligations  to 
obedience,  and  the  penalties  of  rebellion.  All  this  is 
mighty  well.  But  my  honorable  and  learned  friend  ^  on 
the  floor,  who  condescends  to  mark  what  I  say  for  animad- 
version, will  disdain  that  ground.  He  has  heard,  as  well 
as  I,  that  when  great  honors  and  great  emoluments  do  not 
win  over  this  knowledge  to  the  service  of  the  state,  it  is  a 
formidable  adversary  to  government.  If  the  spirit  be  not 
tamed  and  broken  by  these  happy  methods,  it  is  stubborn 
and  litigious.  Aheunt  studia  in  mores. ^  This  study  ren- 
ders men  acute,  inquisitive,  dexterous,  prompt  in  attack, 
ready  in  defence,  full  of  resources.  In  other  countries,  the 
people,  more  simple,  and  of  a  less  mercurial  cast,  judge  of 

1  by  successful  chicane,  i.  e/,  trickery,  sharp  practice. 
When  the  order  was  issued  forbidding  the  holding  of  town  meet- 
ings after  August,  1774,  the  last  meeting  held  prior  to  that  date 
was  adjourned  to  meet  at  a  definite  time.  By  the  rule  of  Par- 
liamentary practice,  an  adjourned  meeting  is  a  continuation 
of  the  original  meeting;  hence  by  this  legal  fiction  these  ad- 
journed meetings  could  not  be  regarded  as  called  after  August 
1,  1774,  and  were  therefore  not  illegal. 

2  learned  friend  ;  Attorney-General  Thurlow  —  who  was 
making  notes  of  points  on  Burke's  Speech. 

8  abeunt  studia  in  mores  ;  a  quotation  from  Ovid  which, 
freely  translated,  means  "  pursuits  pass  into  character." 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       27 

an  ill  principle  in  government  only  by  an  actual  grievance  ; 
here  they  anticipate  the  evil,  and  judge  of  the  pressure  of 
the  grievance  by  the  badness  of  the  principle.  They  augur 
misgovernment  at  a  distance,  and  snuff  the  approach  of 
tyranny  in  every  tainted  breeze. 

43.  The  last  cause  of  this  disobedient  spirit  in  the  colo- 
nies is  hardly  less  powerful  than  the  rest,  as  it  is  g  Remote- 
not  merely  moral,  but  laid  deep  in  the  natural  "®^^- 
constitution  of  things.  Three  thousand  miles  of  ocean  lie 
between  you  and  them.  No  contrivance  can  prevent  the 
effect  of  this  distance  in  weakening  government.  Seas  roll, 
and  months  pass,  between  the  order  and  the  execution ;  and 
the  want  of  a  speedy  explanation  of  a  single  point  is  enough 
to  defeat  a  whole  system.  You  have,  indeed,  winged  min- 
isters of  vengeance,  who  carry  your  bolts  in  their  po.unces  ^ 
to  the  remotest  verge  of  the  sea.  But  there  a  power  steps 
in  that  limits  the  arrogance  of  raging  passions  and  furious 
elements,  and  says.  So  far  shalt  thou  go,  and  no  farther. 
Who  are  you,  that  you  should  fret  and  rage,  and  bite  the 
chains  of  nature  ?  Nothing  worse  happens  to  you  than 
does  to  all  nations  who  have  extensive  empire  ;  and  it  hap- 
pens in  all  the  forms  into  which  empire  can  be  thrown.  In 
large  bodies  the  circulation  of  power  must  be  less  vigorous 
at  the  extremities.  Nature  has  said  it.  The  Turk  cannot 
govern  Egypt  and  Arabia  and  Kurdistan  as  he  governs 
Thrace ;  nor  has  he  the  same  dominion  in  Crimea  and 
Algiers  which  he  has  at  Brusa  and  Smyrna.  Despotism 
itself  is  obliged  to  truck  and  huckster.  The  Sultan  gets 
such  obedience  as  he  can.  He  governs  with  a  loose  rein, 
that  he  may  govern  at  all ;  and  the  whole  of  the  force  and 
vigor  of  his  authority  in  his  centre  is  derived  from  a  pru- 
dent relaxation  in  all  his  borders.  Spain,  in  her  provinces, 
is,  perhaps,  not  so  well  obeyed  as  you  are  in  yours.  She 
complies,  too ;  she  submits  ;  she  watches  times.  This  is 
the  immutable  condition,  the  eternal  law  of  extensive  and 
detached  empire. 

1  pounces  =  claws  or  talons. 


28  EDMUND  BURKE. 

44.  Then,  Sir,  from  these  six  capital  sources  —  of  de- 
scent, of  form  of  government,  of  religion  in  the  northern 
provinces,  of  manners  in  the  southern,  of  education,  of  the 
remoteness  of  situation  from  the  first  mover  of  government 
—  from  all  these  causes  a  fierce  spirit  of  liberty  has  grown 
up.  It  has  grown  with  the  growth  of  the  people  in  your 
colonies,  and  increased  with  the  increase  of  their  wealth  ;  a 
spirit  that  unhappily  meeting  with  an  exercise  of  power  in 
England  which,  however  lawful,  is  not  reconcilable  to  any 
ideas  of  liberty,  much  less  with  theirs,  has  kindled  this 
flame  that  is  ready  to  consume  us. 

45.  I  do  not  mean  to  commend  either  the  spirit  in*  this 
excess,  or  the  moral  causes  which  produce  it.  Perhaps  a 
more  smooth  and  accommodating  spirit  of  freedom  in  them 
would  be  more  acceptable  to  us.  Perhaps  ideas  of  liberty 
might  be  desired  more  reconcilable  with  an  arbitrary  and 
boundless  authority.  Perhaps  we  might  wish  the  colonists 
to  be  persuaded  that  their  liberty  is  more  secure  when  held 
in  trust  for  them  by  us,  as  their  guardians  during  a  perpet- 
ual minority,  than  with  any  part  of  it  in  their  own  hands. 
The  question  is,  not  whether  their  spirit  deserves  jiraise  ft* 
blame,  but  —  what,  in  the  name  of  God,  shall  we  do  with 
it?  You  have  before  you  the  object,  such  as  it  is,  with  all 
its  glories,  with  all  its  imperfections  on  its  head.  You  see 
the  magnitude,  the  importance,  the  temper,  the  habits,  the 
disorders.  By  all  these  considerations  we  are  strongly 
urged  to  determine  something  concerning  it.  We  are 
called  upon  to  fix  some  rule  and  line  for  our  future  conduct 
which  may  give  a  little  stability  to  our  politics,  and  prevent 
the  return  of  such  unhappy  deliberations  as  the  present. 
Every  such  return  will  bring  the  matter  before  us  in  a  still 
more  untractable  form.  For,  what  astonishing  and  incredi- 
ble things  have  we  not  seen  already !  What  monsters  have 
not  been  generated  from  this  unnatural  contention  !  Whilst 
every  principle  of  authority  and  resistance  has  been  pushed, 
upon  both  sides,  as  far  as  it  would  go,  there  is  nothing  so 


CONCILIATION   WITH  THE  COLONIES.       29 

solid  and  certain,  either  in  reasoning  or  in  practice,  that 
has  not  been  shaken.  Until  very  lately  all  authority  in 
America  seemed  to  be  nothing  but  an  emanation  from 
yours.  Even  the  popular  part  of  the  colony  constitution 
derived  all  its  activity  and  its  first  vital  movement  from 
the  pleasure  of  the  crown.  We  thouglu,  Sir,  that  the 
utmost  which  the  discontented  colonists  could  do  was  to 
disturb  authority  ;  we  never  dreamt  they,  could  of  them- 
selves supply  it  —  knowing  in  general  what  an  operose 
business  it  is  to  establish  a  government  absolutely  new. 
But  having,  for  our  purposes  in  this  contention,  resolved 
that  none  but  an  obedient  Assembly  should  sit,  the  humors 
of  the  people  there,  finding  all  passage  through  the  legal 
channel  stopped,  with  great  violence  broke  out  another  way. 
Some  provinces  have  tried  their  experiment,  as  we  have 
tried  ours  ;  and  theirs  has  succeeded.  They  have  formed 
a  government  sufficient  for  its  purposes,  without  the  bustle 
of  a  revolution  or  the  troublesome  formality  of  an  election. 
Evident  necessity  and  tacit  consent  have  done  the  business 
in  an  instant.  So  well  they  have  done  it,  that  Lord  Dun- 
more  ^  —  the  account  is  among  the  fragments  on  your  table 
—  tells  you  that  the  new  institution  is  infinitely  better 
obeyed  than  the  ancient  government  ever  was  in  its  most 
fortunate  periods.  Obedience  is  what  makes  government, 
and  not  the  names  by  which  it  is  called ;  not  the  name  of 
Governor,  as  formerly,  or  Committee,  as  at  present.  This 
new  government  has  originated  directly  from  the  people, 
and  was  not  transmitted  through  any  of  the  ordinary  artifi- 
cial media  of  a  positive  constitution.  It  was  not  a  manu- 
facture ready  formed,  and  transmitted  to  them  in  that 
condition  from  England.  The  evil  arising  from  hence  is 
this ;  that  the  colonists  having  once  found  the  possibility 
of  enjoying  the  advantages  of  order  in  the  midst  of  a  strug- 

^  Lord  Dunmore  ;  Governor  of  Virginia.  His  testimony 
was  the  more  important  because  he  was  regarded  as  a  bitte* 
enemy  of  the  colonies. 

\ 


30  EDMUND  BURKE, 

gle  for  liberty,  such  struggles  will  not  henceforward  seem 
so  terrible  to  the  settled  and  sober  part  of  mankind  as  they 
had  appeared  before  the  trial. 

46.  Pursuing  the  same  plan  of  punishing  by  the  denial 
of  the  exercise  of  government  to  still  greater  lengths,  we 
wholly  abrogated  the  ancient  government  ^  of  Massachu- 
setts. We  were  confident  that  the  first  feeling,  if  not  the 
very  prospect,  of  anarchy  would  instantly  enforce  a  com- 
plete submission.  The  experiment  was  tried.  A  new, 
strange,  unexpected  face  of  things  appeared.  Anarchy  is 
found  tolerable.  A  vast  province  has  now  subsisted,  and 
subsisted  in  a  considerable  degree  of  health  and  vigor  for 
near  a  twelvemonth,  without  Governor,  without  public  coun- 
cil, without  judges,  without  executive  magistrates.  How 
long  it  will  continue  in  this  state,  or  what  may  arise  out  of 
this  unheard-of  situation,  how  can  the  wisest  of  us  conjec- 
ture? Our  late  experience  has  taught  us  that  many  of 
those  fundamental  principles,  formerly  believed  infallible, 
are  either  not  of  the  importance  they  were  imagined  to  be, 
or  that  we  have  not  at  all  adverted  to  some  other  far  more 
important  and  far  more  powerful  principles,  which  entirely 
overrule  those  we  had  considered  as  omnipotent.  I  am 
much  against  any  further  experiments  which  tend  io  put  to 
the  proof  any  more  of  these  allowed  opinions  which  contrib- 
ute so  much  to  the  public  tranquillity.  In  effect,  we  suffer 
as  much  at  home  by  this  loosening  of  all  ties,  and  this  con- 
cussion of  all  established  opinions,  as  we  do  abroad ;  for  in 
order  to  prove  that  the  Americans  have  no  right  to  their 
liberties,  we  are  every  day  endeavoring  to  subvert  the 
maxims  which  preserve  the  whole  spirit  of  our  own.  To 
prove  that  the  Americans  ought  not  to  be  free,  we  are 
obliged  to  depreciate  the  value  of  freedom  itself ;  and  we 

^  abrogated  the  ancient  government.  In  1774,  Parlia- 
ment forbade  the  people  of  Massachusetts  to  hold  town  meet- 
ings, changed  the  charter  of  the  colony,  and  gave  the  appoint- 
ment of  judges  into  the  hands  of  the  King  or  his  agents. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES,       31 

never  seem  to  gain  a  paltry  advantage  over  them  in  debate 
without  attacking  some  of  those  principles,  or  deriding 
some  of  those  feelings,  for  which  our  ancestors  have  shed 
their  blood. 

47.  But,  Sir,  in  wishing  to  put  an  end  to  pernicious 
experiments,  I  do  not  mean  to  preclude  the  fullest  inquiry. 
Far  from  it.  Far  from  deciding  on  a  sudden  or  partial 
view,  I  would  patiently  go  round  and  round  the  subject, 
and  survey  it  minutely  in  every  possible  aspect.  Sir,  if 
I  were  capable  of  engaging  you  to  an  equal  attention,  I 
would  state  that,  as  far  as  I  am  capable  of  dis-  ^^^^^  ^^  ^ 
cernine:,  there  are  but  three  ways  of  proceedin^^   of  Dealing 

1      .  ,  .  11  .    .  ,  .   ,  .,     .        with  this 

relative  to  this  stubborn  spirit  which  prevails  in  Rebellious 
your  colonies,  and  disturbs  your  government. 
These  are  —  to  change  that  spirit,  as  inconvenient,  by  re- 
moving the  causes  ;  to  prosecute  it  as  Criminal ;'  or  to  com- 
ply with  it  as  necessary.  I  would  not  be  guilty  of  an 
imperfect  enumeration  ;  I  can  think  of  but  these  three. 
Another  has  indeed  been  started,  —  that  of  giving  up  the 
colonies  ;  but  it  met  so  slight  a  reception  that  I  do  not 
think  myself  obliged  to  dwell  a  great  while  upon  it.  It  is 
nothing  but  a  little  sally  of  anger,  like  the  forwardness  of 
peevish  children,  who,  when  they  cannot  get  all  they  would 
have,  are  resolved  to  take  nothing. 

48.  The  first  of  these  plans  —  to  change  the  spirit,  as 
inconvenient,  by  removing  the  causes  —  I  think  is  the  most 
like  a  systematic  proceeding.  It  is  radical  in  its  principle ; 
but  it  is  attended  with  great  difficulties,  some  of  them  little 
short,  as  I  conceive,  of  impossibilities.  This  will  appear 
by  examining  into  the  plans  which  have  been  proposed. 

49.  As  the  growing  population  in  the  colonies  is  evi- 
dently one  cause  of  their  resistance,  it  was  last  session 
mentioned  in  both  Houses,  by  men  of  weight,  and  received 
not  without  applause,  that  in  order  to  check  this  evil  it 
would  be  proper  for  the  crown  to  make  no  further  grants 
of   land.     But   to  this   scheme  there   are  two  objections^ 


32  EDMUND  BURKE. 

The  first,  that  there  is  already  so  much  unsettled  land  in 
private  hands  as  to  afford  room  for  an  immense  future 
population,  although  the  crown  not  only  withheld  its 
grants,  but  annihilated  its  soil.  If  this  be  the  case,  then 
the  only  effect  of  this  avarice  of  desolation,  this  hoarding 
of  a  royal  wilderness,  would  be  to  raise  the  value  of  the 
possessions  in  the  hands  of  the  great  private  monopolists, 
without  any  adequate  check  to  the  growing  and  alarming 
mischief  of  population. 

50.  But  if  you  stopped  your  grants,  what  would  be  the 
consequence  ?  The  people  would  occupy  without  grants. 
They  have  already  so  occupied  in  many  places.  You  can- 
not station  garrisons  in  every  part  of  these  deserts.  If 
you  drive  the  people  from  one  place,  they  will  carry  on 
their  annual  tillage,  and  remove  with  their  flocks  and  herds 
to  another.  Many  hi  the  people  in  the  back  settlements 
are  already  little  attached  to  particular  situations.  Already 
they  have  topped  the  Appalachian  mountains.  From 
thence  they  behold  before  them  an  immense  plain,  one 
vast,  rich,  level  meadow ;  a  square  of  five  hundred  miles. 
Over  this  they  would  wander  without  a  possibility  of 
restraint ;  they  would  change  their  manners  with  the  habits 
of  their  life  ;  would  soon  forget  a  government  by  which 
they  were  disowned  ;  would  become  hordes  of  English  Tar- 
tars ;  ^  and,  pouring  down  upon  your  unfortified  frontiers 
a  fierce  and  irresistible  cavalry,  become  masters  of  your 
governors  and  your  counsellors,  your  collectors  and  comp- 
trollers, and  of  all  the  slaves  that  adhered  to  them.  Such 
would,  and  in  no  long  time  must  be,  the  effect  of  attempt- 
ing to  forbid  as  a  crime  and  to  suppress  as  an  evil,  the 
command  and  blessing  of  providence.  Increase  and  mul- 
tiply. Such  would  be  the  happy  result  of  the  endeavor 
to  keep  as  a  lair  of  wild  beasts  that  earth  which  God,  by 

'  English  Tartars  ;  alluding  probably  to  the  host  of  Mon- 
gol and  Tartar  warriors,  who  under  Jengis  Khan  swept  over 
Asia  in  almost  irresistible  force. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       35 

an  express  charter,  has  given  to  the  children  of  men.  Far 
different,  and  surely  much  wiser,  has  been  our  policy  hith- 
erto. Hitherto  we  have  invited  our  people,  by  every  kind 
of  bounty,  to  fixed  establishments.  We  have  invited  the 
husbandman  to  look  to  authority  for  his  title.  We  have 
taught  him  piously  to  believe  in  the  mysterious  virtue  of 
wax  and  parchment.^  We  have  thrown  each  tract  of  land, 
as  it  was  peopled,  into  districts,  that  the  ruling  power 
should  never  be  wholly  out  of  sight.  We  have  settled  all 
we  could ;  and  we  have  carefully  attended  every  settlement 
with  government. 

51.  Adhering,  Sir,  as  I  do,  to  this  policy,  as  well  as  for 
the  reasons  I  have  just  given,  I  think  this  new  project  of 
hedging-in  population  to  be  neither  prudent  nor  practicable. 

52.  To  impoverish  the  colonies  in  general,  and  in  partic- 
ular to  arrest  the  noble  course  of  their  marine  enterprises, 
would  be  a  more  easy  task.  I  freely  confess  it.  We  have 
shown  a  disposition  to  a  system  of  this  kind,  a  disposition 
even  to  continue  the  restraint  after  the  offence,  looking  on 
ourselves  as  rivals  to  our  colonies,  and  persuaded  that  of 
course  we  must  gain  all  that  they  shall  lose.  Much  mis- 
chief we  may  certainly  do.  The  power  inadequate  to  all 
other  things  is  often  more  than  sufficient  for  this.  I  do 
not  look  on  the  direct  and  immediate  power  of  the  colonies 
to  resist  our  violence  as  very  formidable.  In  this,  how- 
ever, I  may  be  mistaken.  But  when  I  consider  that  we 
have  colonies  for  no  purpose  but  to  be  serviceable  to  us,  it 
seems  to  my  poor  understanding  a  little  preposterous  to 
make  them  unserviceable  in  order  to  keep  them  obedient. 
It  is,  in  truth,  nothing  more  than  the  old  and,  as  I  thought, 
exploded  problem  of  tyranny,  wliich  proposes  to  beggar  its 
subjects  into  submission.  But  remember,  when  you  have 
completed  your  system  of  impoverishment,  that  nature  still 
proceeds  in  her  ordinary  course  ;    that  discontent  will  in- 

^  wax  and  parchment  =i  the  observance  of  legal  ^orsns  and 
modes  of  procedure. 


34  EDMUND  BURKE. 

crease  with  misery;  and  that  there  are  critical  moments 
in  the  fortune  of  all  states  when  thpy  who  are  too  weak 
to  contribute  to  your  prosperity  may  be  strong  enough  to 
complete  your  ruin.     Spoliatis  arma  super  sunt} 

53.  The  temper  and  character  which  prevail  in  our  colo- 
nies are,  I  am  afraid,  unalterable  by  any  human  art.  We 
cannot,  I  fear,  falsify  the  pedigree  of  this  fierce  people, 
and  persuade  them  that  they  are  not  sprung  from  a  nation 
in  whose  veins  the  blood  of  freedom  circulates.  The  lan- 
guage in  which  they  would  hear  you  tell  them  this  tale 
would .  detect  the  imposition ;  your  speech  would  betray  * 
you.  An  Englishman  is  the  unfittest  person  on  earth  to 
argue  another  Englishman  into  slavery. 

54.  I  think  it  is  nearly  as  little  in  our  power  to  change 
their  republican  religion  as  their  free  descent ;  or  to  sub- 
stitute the  Roman  Catholic  as  a  penalty,  or  the  Church  of 
England  as  an  improvement.  The  mode  of  inquisition 
and  dragooning  is  going  out  of  fashion  in  the  Old  World 
and  I  should  not  confide  much  to  their  efficacy  in  the  New. 
The  education  of  the  Americans  is  also  on  the  same  un- 
alterable bottom  with  their  religion.  You  cannot  persuade 
them  to  burn  their  books  ^  of  curious  science ;  to  banish 
their  lawyers  from  their  courts  of  laws  ;  or  to  quench  the 
lights  of  their  assemblies  by  refusing  to  choose  those  per- 
sons who  are  best  read  in  their  privileges.  It  would  be  no 
less  impracticable  to  think  of  wholly  annihilating  the  popu- 
lar assemblies  in  which  these  lawyers  sit.  The  army,  by 
which  we  must  govern  in  their  place,  would  be  far  more 
chargeable  to  us,  not  quite  so  effectual,  and  perhaps  in  the 
end  full  as  difficult  to  be  kept  in  obedience. 

55.  With  regard  to  the  high  aristocratic  spirit  of  Vir 

^  Spoliatis  arma  supersunt  ;  a  quotation  from  Juvenal, 
VIII.  124,  meaning  "to  the  despoiled,  their  arms  remain." 

2  language  would  betray  ;  a  probable  allusion  to  Matthew 
Xxvi.  73,  or  to  Judges  xii.  6. 

8  burn  their  books.    See  Acts  xix.  19. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       35 

ginia  and  the  southern  colonies,  it  has  been  proposed,  I 
know,  to  reduce  it  by  declaring  a  general  enfranchisement 
of  their  slaves.  This  object  has  had  its  advocates  and 
panegyrists ;  yet  I  never  could  argue  myself  into  any 
opinion  of  it.  Slaves  are  often  much  attached  to  their 
masters.  A  general  wild  offer  of  liberty  would  not  always 
be  accepted.  History  furnishes  few  instances  of  it.  It  is 
sometimes  as  hard  to  persuade  slaves  to  be  free,  as  it  is  to 
compel  freemen  to  be  slaves  ;  and  in  this  auspicious  scheme 
we  should  have  both  these  pleasing  tasks  on  our  hands  at 
once.  But  when  we  talk  of  enfranchisement,  do  we  not 
perceive  that  the  American  master  may  enfranchise  too. 
and  arm  servile  hands  in  defence  of  freedom  ?  —  a  measure 
to  which  other  people  have  had  recourse  more  than  once, 
and  not  without  success,  in  a  desperate  situation  of  their 
affairs. 

56.  Slaves  as  these  unfortunate  black  people  are,  and 
dull  as  all  men  are  from  slavery,  must  they  not  a  little 
susj^ect  the  offer  of  freedom  from  that  very  nation  which 
has  sold  them  to  their  present  masters  —  from  that  nation, 
one  of  whose  causes  of  quarrel  with  those  masters  is  their 
refusal  to  deal  any  more  in  that  inhuman  traffic  ?  An 
offer  of  freedom  from  England  would  come  rather  oddly, 
shipped  to  them  in  an  African  vessel  which  is  refused  an 
entry  into  the  poi-ts  of  Virginia  or  Carolina  wdth  a  cargo 
of  three  hundred  Angola  ^  negroes.  It  would  be  curious  to 
see  the  Guinea  captain  attempting  at  the  same  instant 
to  publish  his  proclamation  of  liberty,  and  to  advertise  his 
sale  of  slaves. 

57.  But  let  us  suppose  all  these  moral  difficulties  got 
over.  The  ocean  remains.  You  cannot  pump  this  dry  ,; 
and  as  long  as  it  continues  in  its  present  bed,  so  long  al! 
the  causes  which  weaken  authority  by  distance  will  con 
tinue. 

'■  Angola  ;  on  the  west  coast  of  Africa,  noted  for  its  activit;; 
in  the  slave  trade. 


36  EDMUND  BURKE. 

"  Ye  gods,^  annihilate  but  space  and  time. 
And  make  two  lovers  happy !  " 

was  a  pious  and  passionate  prayer ;  but  just  as  reasonable 
as  many  of  the  serious  wishes  of  grave  and  solemn  poli- 
ticians. 

58.  If  then,  Sir,  it  seems  almost  desperate  to  think  of 
any  alterative  course  for  changing  the  moral  causes,  and 
not  quite  easy  to  remove  the  natural,  which  produce  preju- 
dices irreconcilable  to  the  late  exercise  of  our  authority  — 
but  that  the  spirit  infallibly  will  continue,  and,  continuing, 
will  produce  such  effects  as  now  embarrass  us  —  the  second 
XQode  under  consideration  is  to  prosecute  that  spirit  in  its 
overt  acts  as  criminaL 

59.  At  this  proposition  I  must  pause  a  moment.  The 
thing  seems  a  great  deal  too  big  for  my  ideas  of  jurispru- 
dence. It  should  seem  to  my  way  of  conceiving  such 
matters  that  there  is  a  very  wide  difference,  in  reason  and 
policy,  between  the  mode  of  proceeding  on  the  irregular 
conduct  of  scattered  individuals,  or  even  of  bands  of  men 
who  disturb  order  within  the  state,  and  the  civil  dissensions 
which  may,  from  time  to  time,  on  great  questions,  agitate 
the  several  communities  which  compose  a  great  empire.  It 
looks  to  me  to  be  narrow  and  pedantic  to  apply  the  ordinary 
ideas  of  criminal  justice  to  this  great  public  contest.  I  do 
not  know  the  method  of  drawing  up  an  indictment  against 
a  whole  people.  I  cannot  insult  and  ridicule  the  feelings 
of  millions  of  my  fellow-creatures  as  Sir  Edward  Coke  in- 
sulted ^  one  excellent  individual  (Sir  Walter  Haleigh)  at 
the  bar.  I  hope  I  am  not  ripe  to  pass  sentence  on  the 
gravest  public  bodies,  intrusted  with  magistracies  of  great 
authority  and  dignity,  and  charged  with  the  saiety  of  their 

1  Ye  gods  ;  of  uncertain  origin. 

2  Sir  Ed-ward  Coke  insulted  ;  referring  to  Raleigh's  trial, 
when  Coke,  then  attorney-general,  assailed  him  with  bitter  in- 
iustice,  denouncing  him  in  the  words  :  — 

*'  Thou  bast  an  English  face,  but  a  Spanish  heart. " 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       3T 

fellow-citizens,  upon  the  very  same  title  that  I  am.  I  really 
think  that,  for  wise  men,  this  is  not  judicious ;  for  sober 
men,  not  decent ;  for  minds  tinctured  with  humanity,  not 
mild  and  merciful. 

60.  Perhaps,  Sir,  I  am  mistaken  in  my  idea  of  an  em- 
pire, as  distinguished  from  a  single  state  or  kingdom.  But 
my  idea  of  it  is  this ;  that  an  empire  is  the  aggregate  of 
many  states  under  one  common  head,  whether  this  head  be 
a  monarch  or  a  presiding  republic.  It  does,  in  such  con- 
stitutions, frequently  happen  —  and  nothing  but  the  dismal, 
cold,  dead  uniformity  of  servitude  can  prevent  its  happen- 
ing —  that  the  subordinate  parts  have  many  local  privileges 
and  immunities.  Between  these  privileges  and  the  supreme 
common  authority  the  line  may  be  extremely  nice.  Of 
course  disputes,  often,  too,  very  bitter  disputes,  and  much 
ill  blood,  will  arise.  But  though  every  privilege  is  an 
exemption,  in  the  case,  from  the  ordinary  exercise  of  the 
supreme  authority,  it  is  no  denial  of  it.  The  claim  of  a 
privilege  seems  rather,  ex  vi  termini,'^  to  imply  a  superior 
power ;  for  to  talk  of  the  privileges  of  a  state  or  of  a  per- 
son who  has  no  superior  is  hardly  any  better  than  speaking 
nonsense.  Now,  in  such  unfortunate  quarrels  among  the 
component  parts  of  a  great  political  union  of  communities, 
I  can  scarcely  conceive  anything  more  completely  impru- 
dent than  for  the  head  of  the  empire  to  insist  that,  if  any 
privilege  is  pleaded  against  his  will  or  his  acts,  his  whole 
authority  is  denied  ;  instantly  to  proclaim  rebellion,  to  beat 
to  arms,  and  to  put  the  offending  provinces  under  the  ban. 
Will  not  this.  Sir,  very  soon  teach  the  provinces  to  make 
no  distinctions  on  their  part  ?  Will  it  not  teach  them  that 
the  government,  against  which  a  claim  of  liberty  is  tanta- 
mount to  high  treason,  is  a  government  to  which  submission 
is  equivalent  to  slavery?  It  may  not  always  be  quite  con- 
venient to  impress  dependent  communities  with  such  an 
idea. 

*  Bx  vi  termini  =  by  the  meaning  of  the  term. 


38  EDMUND  BURKE, 

61.  We  are,  indeed,  in  all  disputes  with  the  colonies,  by 
the  necessity  of  things,  the  judge.  It  is  true,  Sir.  But  I 
confess  that  the  character  of  judge  in  my  own  cause  is  a 
thing  that  frightens  me.  Instead  of  filling  me  with  pride, 
I  am  exceedingly  humbled  by  it.  I  cannot  proceed  with  a 
stern,  assured,  judicial  confidence,  until  I  find  myself  in. 
something  more  like  a  judicial  character.  I  must  have 
these  hesitations  as  long  as  I  am  compelled  to  recollect 
that,  in  my  little  reading  upon  such  contests  as  these,  the 
sense  of.  mankind  has  at  least  as  often  decided  against  the 
superior  as  the  subordinate  power.  Sir,  let  me  add,  too, 
that  the  opinion  of  my  having  some  abstract  right  in  my 
favor  would  not  put  me  much  at  my  ease  in  passing  sen- 
tence, unless  I  could  be  sure  that  there  were  no  rights 
which,  in  their  exercise  under  certain  circumstances,  were 
not  the  most  odious  of  all  wrongs  and  the  most  vexatious 
of  all  injustice.  Sir,  these  considerations  have  great  weight 
with  me  when  I  find  things  so  circumstanced,  that  I  see  the 
same  party  at  once  a  civil  litigant  against  me  in  point  of 
right  and  a  culprit  before  me,  while  I  sit  as  a  criminal 
judge  on  acts  of  his  whose  moral  quality  is  to  be  decided 
upon  the  merits  of  that  very  litigation.  Men  are  every 
now  and  then  put,  by  the  complexity  of  human  affairs,  into 
strange  situations  ;  but  justice  is  the  same,  let  the  judge 
be  in  what  situation  he  will. 

62.  There  is,  Sir,  also  a  circumstance  which  convinces 
me  that  this  mode  of  criminal  proceeding  is  not,  at  least  in 
the  present  stage  of  our  contest,  altogether  expedient ; 
which  is  nothing  less  than  the  conduct  of  those  very  persons 
who  have  seemed  to  adopt  that  mode  by  lately  declaring 
a  rebellion  in  Massachusetts  Bay,  as  they  had  formerly 
addressed^  to  have  traitors  brought  hither,  under  an  Act 
of  Henry  the  Eighth,  for  trial.  For  though  rebellion  is 
declared,  it  is  not  proceeded  against  as  such,  nor  have  any 
steps  been  taken  towards  the  apprehension  or  conviction  of 

1  addressed  =  petitioned. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       39 

any  individual  offender,  either  on  our  late  or  our  former 
Address  ;  but  modes  of  public  coercion  have  been  adopted, 
and  such  as  have  much  more  resemblance  to  a  sort  of 
qualified  hostility  towards  an  independent  power  than  the 
punishment  of  rebellious  subjects.  All  this  seems  rather 
inconsistent ;  but  it  shows  how  difficult  it  is  to  apply  these 
juridical  ideas  to  our  present  case. 

•  63.  In  this  situation,  let  us  seriously  and  coolly  pondero 
What  is  it  we  have  got  by  all  our  menaces,  which  have  been 
many  and  ferocious  ?  What  advantage  have  we  derived 
from  the  penal  laws  we  have  passed,  and  which,  for  the 
time,  have  been  severe  and  numerous  ?  What  advances 
have  we  made  towards  our  object  by  the  sending  of  a  force 
which,  by  land  and  sea,  is  no  contemptible  strength?  Has 
the  disorder  abated  ?  Nothing  less.  When  I  see  things 
in  this  situation  after  such  confident  hopes,  bold  promises, 
and  active  exertions,  I  cannot,  for  my  life,  avoid  a  suspicion 
that  the  plan  itself  is  not  correctly  right. 

64.  If,  then,  the  removal  of  the  causes  of  this  spirit  of 
American  liberty  be  for  the  greater  part,  or  rather  entirely, 
impracticable ;  if  the  ideas  of  criminal  process  be  inapplica- 
ble —  or,  if  applicable,  are  in  the  highest  degree   jy  qq^_ 
inexpedient  —  what  way  yet  remains  ?     No  way   ^^^^^gg.^ 
is  open  but  the  third  and  last  —  to  comply  with   sity. 
the    American    spirit   as    necessary ;  or,  if  you  please,  to 
submit  to  it  as  a  necessary  evil. 

Qb.  If  we  adopt  this   mode,  —  if  we  mean  to  conciliate 
and  concede  —  let  us  see  of  what  nature  the  con-   b.  What 
cession  ought  to  be.     To  ascertain  the  nature   of  SSon^^ 
our  concession,  we  must  look  at  their  complaint.    BE*^"i'^Na^ 
The    colonies   complain   that  they  have   not   the   tureofthe 

*■  ''  Conces- 

characteristic   mark   and  seal  of  British  freedom,    sion. 
They  complain    that   they  are  taxed    in    a  Parliament  in 
which  they  are  not  represented.     If  you  mean  to   ^  Taxed 
satisfy  them  at  all,  you  must  satisfy  them  with  Re^preggn, 
regard  to  this  complaint.     If  you  mean  to  please   tation. 


40  EDMUND  BURKE. 

any  people,  you  must  give  them  the  boon  which  they  ask ; 
not  what  you  may  think  better  for  them,  but  of  a  kind 
totally  different.  Such  an  act  may  be  a  wise  regulation, 
but  it  is  no  concession ;  whereas  our  present  theme  is  the 
mode  of  giving  satisfaction. 

66.  Sir,  I  think  you  must  perceive  that  I  am  resolved 
this  day  to  have  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  the  question  of 
the  right  of  taxation.  Some  gentlemen  startle  —  but  it  is 
true ;  I  put  it  totally  out  of  the  question.  It  is  less  than 
nothing  in  my  consideration.  I  do  not  indeed  wonder, 
nor  will  you,  Sir,  that  gentlemen  of  profound  learning  are 
<ond  of  displaying  it  on  this  profound  subject.  But  my 
consideration  is  narrow,  confined,  and  wholly  limited  to 
the  policy  of  the  question.  I  do  not  examine  whether  the 
giving  away  a  man's  money  be  a  power  excepted  and 
reserved  out  of  the  general  trust  of  government,  and  how 
far  all  mankind,  in  all  forms  of  polity,  are  entitled  to 
an  exercise  of  that  right  by  the  charter  of  nature ;  or, 
whether,  on  the  contrary,  a  right  of  taxation  is  necessarily 
involved  in  the  general  principle  of  legislation,  and  insep- 
arable from  the  ordinary  supreme  power.  These  are  deep 
questions,  where  great  names  militate  against  each  other, 
where  reason  is  perplexed,  and  an  appeal  to  authorities 
only  thickens  the  confusion ;  for  high  and  reverend  author- 
ities lift  up  their  heads  on  both  sides,  and  there  is  no  sure 
footing  in  the  middle.     This  point  is  the  great 

"  Serbonian  bog,^ 
Betwixt  Damiata  and  Mount  Casius  old, 
Where  armies  whole  have  sunk." 

I  do  not  intend  to  be  overwhelmed  in  that  bog,  though  in 
such  respectable  company.  The  question  with  me  is,  not 
whether  you  have  a  right  to  render  your  people  miserable, 
but  whether  it  is  not  your  interest  to  make  them  happy. 

1  great  Serbonian  bog  ;  a  quotation  from  Paradise  LosU 
n.  592-594. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.      41 

It  is  not  what  a  lawyer  tells  me  I  may  do,  but  what  human- 
ity, reason,  and  justice  tell  me  I  ought  to  do.  Is  a  politic 
act  the  worse  for  being  a  generous  one  ?  Is  no  concession 
proper  but  that  which  is  made  from  your  want  of  right 
to  keep  what  you  grant  ?  Or  does  it  lessen  the  grace  or 
dignity  of  relaxing  in  the  exercise  of  an  odious  claim 
because  you  have  your  evidence-room  full  of  titles,  and 
your  magazines  stuffed  with  arms  to  enforce  them  ?  What 
signify  all  those  titles,  and  all  those  arms  ?  Of  what  avail 
are  they,  when  the  reason  of  the  thing  tells  me  that 
the  assertion  of  my  title  is  the  loss  of  my  suit,  and  that  I 
could  do  nothing  but  wound  myself  by  the  use  of  my  own 
weapons  ? 

67.  Such  is  steadfastly  my  opinion  of  the  absolute  neces- 
sity of  keeping  up  the  concord  of  this  empire  by  an  unity 
of  spirit,  though  in  a  diversity  of  operations,  that,  if  I  were 
sure  the  colonists  had,  at  their  leaving  this  country,  sealed 
a  regular  compact  of  servitude ;  that  they  had  solemnly 
abjured  all  the  rights  of  citizens;  that  they  had  made  a 
vow  to  renounce  all  ideas  of  liberty  for  them  and  their 
posterity  to  all  generations ;  yet  I  should  hold  myself 
obliged  to  conform  to  the  temper  I  found  universally  prev- 
alent in  my  own  day,  and  to  govern  two  million  of  men, 
impatient  of  servitude,  on  the  principles  of  freedom.  I 
am  not  determining  a  point  of  law,  I  am  restoring  tranquil- 
lity ;  and  the  general  character  and  situation  of  a  people 
must  determine  what  sort  of  government  is  fitted  for  them. 
That  point  nothing  else  can  or  ought  to  determine. 

68.  My  idea,  therefore,  without  considering  whether  we 
yield  it  as  a  matter  of  right  or  grant  as  matter  of  g.  Burke's 
favor,  is  to  admit  the  people  of  our  colonies  into  ^'^^*- 

an  interest  in  the  Constitution  ;  and,  by  recording  that 
admission  in  the  journals  of  Parliament,  to  give  them  as 
strong  an  assurance  as  the  nature  of  the  thing  will  admit, 
that  we  mean  forever  to  adhere  to  that  solemn  declaration 
•f  systematic  indulgence. 


42  EDMUND    BURKE. 

69.  Some  years  ago  the  repeal  of  a  revenue  Act,  upon 
its  understood  principle,  might  have  served  to  show  that 
we  intended  an  unconditional  abatement  of  the  exercise  of 
a  taxing  power.  Such  a  measure  was  then  sufficient  to 
remove  all  suspicion,  and  to  give  perfect  content.  But 
unfortunate  events  since  that  time  may  make  something 
further  necessary ;  and  not  more  necessary  for  the  satisfac- 
tion of  the  colonies  than  for  the  dignity  and  consistency 
of  our  own  future  proceedings. 

70.  I  have  taken  a  very  incorrect  measure  of  the  dis- 
position of  the  House  if  this  proposal  in  itself  would  be 
received  with  dislike.  I  think,  Sir,  we  have  few  American 
financiers.  1  But  our  misfortune  is,  we  are  too  acute,  we 
are  too  equisite^  in  our  conjectures  of  the  future,  for  men 
oppressed  with  such  great  and  present  evils.  The  more 
moderate  among  the  opposers  of  Parliamentary  concession 
freely  confess  that  they  hope  no  good  from  taxation,  but 
they  apprehend  the  colonists  have  further  views  ;  and  if 
this  point  were  conceded,  they  would  instantly  attack  the 
trade  laws.  These  gentlemen  are  convinced  that  this  was 
the  intention  from  the  beginning,  and  the  quarrel  of  the 
Americans  with  taxation  was  no  more  than  a  cloak  and 
cover  to  this  design.  Such  has  been  the  language  even  of 
a  gentleman  of  real  moderation,^  and  of  a  natural  temper 
well  adjusted  to  fair  and  equal  government.  I  am,  how- 
ever, Sir,  not  a  little  surprised  at  this  kind  of  discourse 
whenever  I  hear  it;  and  I  am  the  more  surprised  on 
account  of  the  arguments  which  I  constantly  find  in  com- 
pany with  it,  and  which  are  often  urged  from  the  same 
mouths  and  on  the  same  day. 

71.  For  instance,  when  we  allege  that  it  is  against  rea- 
son to  tax  a  people  under  so  many  restraints  in  trade  as  the 

*  American  financiers  =  financiers  skilled  in  dealing  with 
affairs  in  America. 

^  too  exquisite  ==  too  careful,  over-careful,  over-anxious. 

*  a  gentleman  of  real  moderation;  a  Mr.  Rice. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       43 

Americans,  the  noble  lord  in  the  blue  ribbon  shall  tell  you 
that  the  restraints  on  trade  are  futile  and  useless  —  of  no 
advantage  to  us,  and  of  no  burthen  to  those  on  whom  they 
are  imposed  ;  that  the  trade  to  America  is  not  secured  by 
the  Acts  of  Navigation,^  but  by  the  natural  and  irresistible 
advantage  of  a  commercial  preference. 

72.  Such  is  the  merit  of  the  trade  laws  in  this  posture  of 
the  debate.  But  when  strong  internal  circumstances  are 
urged  against  the  taxes ;  when  the  scheme  is  dissected ; 
when  experience  and  the  nature  of  things  are  brought  to 
prove,  and  do  prove,  the  utter  impossibility  of  obtaining  an 
effective  revenue  from  the  colonies  ;  when  these  things  are 
pressed,  or  rather  press  themselves,  so  as  to  drive  the  advo- 
cates of  colony  taxes  to  a  clear  admission  of  the  futility  of 
the  scheme ;  then,  Sir,  the  sleeping  trade  laws  revive  fi'om 
their  trance,  and  this  useless  taxation  is  to  be  kept  sacred, 
not  for  its  own  sake,  but  as  a  counter-guard  and  security  of 
the  laws  of  trade. 

73.  Then,  Sir,  you  keep  up  revenue  laws  which  are  mis- 
chievous, in  order  to  preserve  trade  laws  that  are  useless. 
Such  is  the  wisdom  of  our  plan  in  both  its  members. 
They  are  separately  given  up  as  of  no  value,  and  yet  one 
is  always  to  be  defended  for  the  sake  of  the  other ;  but  I 
cannot  agree  with  the  noble  lord,  nor  with  the  pamphlet^ 
from  whence  he  seems  to  have  borrowed  these  ideas  con- 
cerning the  inutility  of  the  trade  laws.  For,  without  idol° 
izing  them,  I  am  sure  they  are  still,  in  many  ways,  of  great 
use  to  us ;  and  in  former  times  they  have  been  of  the 
greatest.  They  do  confine,  and  they  do  greatly  narrow, 
the  market  for  the  Americans  ;  but  my  perfect  conviction 
of  this  does  not  help  me  in  the  least  to  discern  how  the 

^  Acts  of  Navigation,  by  which  every  other  nation  was 
forbidden  to  bring  to  England  or  to  its  colonies  anything  but 
the  actual  products  of  that  country.  Hence  the  greater  amount 
©f  the  carrying  trade  was  in  the  hands  of  England  itself. 

2  the  pamphlet ;  written  by  Dr.  Tucker,  of  Gloucester. 


44  EDMUND  BURKE. 

revenue  laws  form  any  security  whatsoever  to  the  com* 
aiercial  regulations,  or  that  these  commercial  regulations 
are  the  true  grouml  of  the  quarrel,  or  that  the  giving  way, 
in  any  one  instance  of  authority,  is  to  lose  all  that  may 
remain  unconceded. 

74.  One  fact  is  clear  and  indisputable.  The  public  and 
avowed  origin  of  this  quarrel  was  on  taxation.  This 
quarrel  has  indeed  brought  on  new  disputes  on  new  ques- 
tions ;  but  certainly  the  least  bitter,  and  the  fewest  of  all, 
on  the  trade  laws.  To  judge  which  of  the  two  be  the  real 
radical  cause  of  quarrel,  we  have  to  see  whether  the  com- 
mercial dispute  did,  in  order  of  time,  precede  the  dispute 
on  taxation  ?  There  is  not  a  shadow  of  evidence  for  it. 
Next,  to  enable  us  to  judge  whether  at  this  moment  a  dis- 
like to  the  trade  laws  be  the  real  cause  of  quarrel,  it  is 
absolutely  nesessary  to  put  the  taxes  out  of  the  question  by 
a  repeal.  See  how  the  Americans  act  in  this  position,  and 
then  you  will  be  able  to  discern  correctly  what  is  the  true 
object  of  the  controversy,  or  whether  any  controversy  at  all 
will  remain.  Unless  you  consent  to  remove  this  cause  of 
difference,  it  is  impossible,  with  decency,  to  assert  that  the . 
dispute  is  not  upon  what  it  is  avowed  to  be.  And  I  would, 
Sir,  recommend  to  your  serious  consideration  whether  it  be 
prudent  to  form  a  rule  for  punishing  people,  not  on  their 
own  acts,  but  on  your  conjectures  ?  Surely  it  is  prepos- 
terous at  the  very  best.  It  is  not  justifying  your  anger  by 
their  misconduct,  but  it  is  converting  your  ill-will  into  their 
delinquency. 

75.  But  the  colonies  will  go  further.^  Alas !  alas ! 
when  will  this  speculation  against  fact  and  reason  end  ? 
What  will  quiet  these  panic  fears  which  we  entertain  of 
the  hostile  effect  of  a  conciliatory  conduct  ?  Is  it  true  that 
no  case  can  exist  in  which  it  is  proper  for  the  sovereign 
to  accede  to  the  desires  of  his  discontented  subjects  ?     Is 

^  the  colonies  Tvill  go  further,  i.  e.,  the  objection  of  the 
opponents  of  Burke's  scheme. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       45 

there  anything  peculiar  in  this  case  to  make  a  rule  for 
itself  ?  Is  all  authority  of  course  lost  when  it  is  not  pushed 
to  the  extreme?  Is  it  a  certain  maxim  that  the  fewer 
causes  of  dissatisfaction  are  left  by  government,  the  more 
the  subject  will  be  inclined  to  resist  and  rebel  ? 

76.  All  these  objections  being  in  fact  no  more  than  su» 
picions,  conjectures,  divinations,  formed  in  defiance  of  fact 
and  experience,  they  did  not,  Sir,  discourage  me  from 
entertaining  the  idea  of  a  conciliatory  concession  founded 
on  the  principles  which  I  have  just  stated. 

77.  In  forming  a  plan  for  this  purpose,  I  endeavored  to 
put  myselt   in  that  frame   of  mind   which  was  the  most 
natural  and  the  most  reasonable,  and  which  was  certainly 
the  most  probable  means  of  securing  me  from  all  error. 
I  set  out  with  a  perfect  distrust  of  my  own  abilities,  a  total 
renunciation  of  every  speculation  of  my  own,  and   3.  prece- 
with  a  profound  reverence  for  the  wisdom  of  our   condiia^ 
ancestors  who  have  left  us  the  inheritance  of  so   ^*°°* 
happy  a  constitution  and  so  flourishing    an  empire,  and, 
what  is  a  thousand  times  more  valuable,  the  treasury  of  the 
maxims  and  principles  which  formed  the  one  and  obtained 
the  other. 

78.  During  the  reigns  of  the  kings  of  Spain  of  the  Aus- 
trian family,  whenever  they  were  at  a  loss  in  the  Spanish 
councils,  it  was  common  for  their  statesmen  to  say  that 
they  ought  to  consult  the  genius  of  Philip  the  Second. 
The  genius  of  Philip  the  Second  ^  might  mislead  them,  and 
the  issue  of  their  affairs  showed  that  they  had  not  chosen 
the  most  perfect  standard ;  but.  Sir,  I  am  sure  that  I  shah 
not  be  misled  when,  in  a  case  of  constitutional  difficulty,  I 
consult  the  genius  of  the  English  Constitution.  Consulting 
at  that  oracle  ^  —  it  was  with  all  due  humility  and  piety  — 

1  Philip  the  Second,  1556-1598. 

2  consulting  at  that  oracle  ;  referring,  of  course,  to  the 
ancient  practice  of  appealing  to  the  oracle  of  a  god  for  guid- 
ance as  to  a  proposed  course  of  action. 


46  EDMUND  BURKE. 

i  found  four  capital  examples  in  a  similar  case  before  me? 
those  of  Ireland,  Wales,  Chester,  and  Durham. 

79.  Ireland,  before  the  English  conquest,  though  never 
governed  by  a  despotic  power,  had  no  Parliament.  How 
tar  the  PInglish  Parliament  itself  was  at  that  time  modelled 
liccording  to  the  present  form  is  disputed  among  antiqua- 
ries ;  but  we  have  all  the  reason  in  the  world  to  be  assured 
that  a  form  of  Parliament  such  as  England  thefi  enjoyed 
she  instantly  communicated  to  Ireland,  and  we  are  equally 
sure  that  almost  every  successive  improvement  in  constitu- 
tional liberty,  as  fast  as  it  was  made  here,  was  transmitted 
thither.  The  feudal  baronage  and  the  feudal  knighthood, 
the  roots  of  our  primitive  Constitution,  were  early  trans- 
planted into  that  soil,  and  grew  and  flourished  there. 
Magna  Charta,  if  it  did  not  give  us  originally  the  House  of 
Commons,  gave  us  at  least  a  House  of  Commons  of  weight 
and  consequence.  But  your  ancestors  did  not  churlishly  sit 
down  alone  to  the  feast  of  Magna  Charta.  Ireland  was 
made  immediately  a  partaker.  This  benefit  of  English 
laws  and  liberties,  I  confess,  was  not  at  first  extended  to 
all  Ireland.  Mark  the  consequence.  English  authority 
and  English  liberties  had  exactly  the  same  boundaries. 
Your  standard  could  never  be  advanced  an  inch  before 
your  privileges.  Sir  John  Davis  ^  shows  beyond  a  doubt 
that  the  refusal  of  a  general  communication  of  these  rights 
was  the  true  cause  why  Ireland  was  five  hundred  years  in 
subduing ;  and  after  the  vain  projects  of  a  military  govern- 
ment, attempted  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  it  was 
soon  discovered  that  nothing  could  make  that  country 
English,  in  civility  and  allegiance,  but  your  laws  and  your 
forms  of  legislature.  It  was  not  English  arms,  but  the 
English  Constitution,  that  conquered  Ireland.  From  that 
time  Ireland  has  ever  had  a  general  Parliament,  as  she  had 
before  a  partial  Parliament.     You  changed  the  people ;  you 

1  Sir  John  Davis  (or  Davies).  In  1603  he  was  solicitor- 
general  to  Ireland,  and  in  1612  published  a  work  on  the  politi- 
cal state  of  that  country. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.      47 

altered  the  religion ;  but  you  never  touched  the  form  or  the 
vital  substance  of  free  government  in  that  kingdom.  You 
deposed  kings  ;  you  restored  them  ;  you  altered  the  succes- 
sion to  theirs,  as  well  as  to  your  own  crown ;  but  you 
never  altered  their  Constitution,  the  principle  of  which  was 
respected  by  usurpation,  restored  with  the  restoration  of 
monarchy,  and  established,  I  trust,  forever  by  the  glorious 
Revolution.  This  has  made  Ireland  the  great  and  flourish- 
ing kingdom  that  it  is,  and,  from  a  disgrace  and  a  burthen 
intolerable  to  this  nation,  has  rendered  her  a  principal  part 
of  our  strength  and  ornament.  This  country  cannot  be 
said  to  have  ever  formally  taxed  her.  The  irregular 
things  done  in  the  confusion  of  mighty  troubles  and  on  the 
hinge  of  great  revolutions,  even  if  all  were  done  that  is 
said  to  have  been  done,  form  no  example.  If  they  have 
any  effect  in  argument,  they  make  an  exception  to  prove 
the  rule.  None  of  your  own  liberties  could  stand  a  mo- 
ment, if  the  casual  deviations  from  them  at  such  times 
were  suffered  to  be  used  as  proofs  of  their  nullity.  By  the 
lucrative  amount  of  such  casual  breaches  in  the  constitu- 
tion, judge  what  the  stated  and  fixed  rule  of  supply  has 
been  in  that  kingdom.  Your  Irish  pensioners  would 
starve,  if  they  had  no  other  fund  to  live  on  than  taxes 
granted  by  English  authority.  Turn  your  eyes  to  those 
popular  gi'ants  from  whence  all  your  great  supplies  are 
come,  and  learn  to  respect  that  only  source  of  public  wealth 
in  the  British  Empire. 

80.  My  next  example  is  Wales.  This  country  was  said 
to  be  reduced  by  Henry  the  Third.  It  was  said  more  truly 
to  be  so  by  Edward  the  First.  But  though  then  conquered, 
it  was  not  looked  upon  as  any  part  of  the  realm  of  England. 
Its  old  Constitution,  whatever  that  might  have  been,  was 
destroyed,  and  no  good  one  was  substituted  in  its  place. 
The  care  of  that  tract  was  put  into  the  hands  of  Lords 
Marchers  ^  —  a  form    of    government    of  a  very  singular 

^  Lords  Marchers  =  the  lords  of  the  marches,  or  borders  of 
a  territory  :  they  had  kingly  authority. 


48  EDMUND  BURKE. 

kind ;  a  strange  heterogeneous  monster,  something  between 
hostility  and  government ;  perhaps  it  has  a  sort  of  resem- 
blance, according  to  the  modes  of  those  terms,  to  that  of 
Commander-in-chief  at  present,  to  whom  all  civil  power  is 
granted  as  secondary.  The  manners  of  the  Welsh  nation 
followed  the  genius  of  the  government.  The  people  were 
ferocious,  restive,  savage,  and  uncultivated  ;  sometimes  com- 
posed, never  pacified.  Wales,  within  itself,  was  in  perpet* 
ual  disorder,  and  it  kept  the  frontier  of  England  in  per- 
petual alarm.  Benefits  from  it  to  the  state  there  were 
none.  Wales  was  only  known  to  England  by  incursion  and 
invasion. 

81.  Sir,  during  that  state  of  things.  Parliament  was  not 
idle.  They  attempted  to  subdue  the  fierce  spirit  of  the 
Welsh  by  all  sorts  of  rigorous  laws.  They  prohibited  by 
statute  the  sending  all  sorts  of  arms  into  Wales,  as  you 
prohibit  by  proclamation  (with  something  more  of  doubt 
on  the  legality)  the  sending  arms  to  America.  They  dis- 
armed the  Welsh  by  statute,  as  you  attempted  (but  still 
with  more  question  on  the  legality)  to  disarm  New  England 
by  an  instruction.  They  made  an  Act  to  drag  offenders 
from  Wales  into  England  for  trial,  as  you  have  done  (but 
with  more  hardship)  with  regard  to  America.  By  another 
Act,  where  one  of  the  parties  was  an  Englishman,  they 
ordained  that  his  trial  should  be  always  by  English.  They 
made  Acts  to  restrain  trade,  as  you  do ;  and  they  prevented 
the  Welsh  from  the  use  of  fairs  and  markets,  as  you  do 
the  Americans  from  fisheries  and  foreign  ports.  In  short, 
when  the  Statute  Book  was  not  quite  so  much  swelled  as  it 
is  now,  you  find  no  less  than  fifteen  acts  of  penal  regulation 
on  the  subject  of  Wales. 

82.  Here  we  rub  our  hands.  —  A  fine  body*  of  prece- 
dents for  the  authority  of  Parliament  and  the  use  of  it !  — 
I  admit  it  fully ;  and  pray  add  likewise  to  these  precedents 

*  A  fine  body ;  the  exclamation  of  one  who  is  in  favor  ol 
soercion. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.      49 

that  all  the  while  Wales  rid  this  kingdom  like  an  incubus^ 
that  it  was  an  unprofitable  and  oppressive  burthen,  and  that 
an  Englishman  travelling  in  that  country  could  not  go  six 
yards  from  the  high  road  without  being  murdered. 

83.  The  march  of  the  human  mind  is  slow.  Sir,  it  was 
not  until  after  two  hundred  years  discovered  that,  by  an 
eternal  law,  providence  had  decreed  vexation  to  violence, 
and  poverty  to  rapine.  Your  ancestors  did,  however,  a^ 
length  open  their  eyes  to  the  ill-husbandry  of  injustice, 
They  found  that  the  tyranny  of  a  free  people  could  of  all 
tyrannies  the  least  be  endured,  and  that  laws  made  against 
a  whole  nation  were  not  the  most  effectual  methods  of 
securing  its  obedience.  Accordingly,  in  the  twenty-seventh 
year  of  Henry  the  Eighth  the  course  was  entirely  altered. 
With  a  preamble  stating  the  entire  and  perfect  rights  of  the 
Crown  of  England,  it  gave  to  the  Welsh  all  the  rights  and 
privileges  of  English  subjects.  A  political  order  was  estab- 
lished ;  the  military  power  gave  way  to  the  civil ;  the  Marches 
were  turned  into  Counties.  But  that  a  nation  should  have  a 
right  to  English  liberties,  and  yet  no  share  at  all  in  the 
fundamental  security  of  these  liberties  —  the  grant  of  their 
own  property  —  seemed  a  thing  so  incongruous,  that,  eight 
•years  after,  that  is,  in  the  thirty-fifth  of  that  reign,  a  com- 
plete and  not  ill-proportioned  representation  by  counties  and 
boroughs  was  bestowed  upon  Wales  by  Act  of  Parliament. 
From  that  moment,  as  by  a  charm,  the  tumults  subsided ; 
obedience  was  restored ;  peace,  order,  and  civilization  fol- 
lowed in  the  train  of  liberty.  When  the  day-star  ^  of  the 
English  Constitution  had  arisen  in  their  hearts,  all  was 
harmony  within  and  without  — 

—  "  simul  alba  nautis  ^ 
Stella  ref  ulsit, 

1  day-star.     See  2  Pet.  i.  19. 

2  simul  alba  nautis  ;  a  quotation  from  Horace,  Ode  I. 
12-27-32.  Freely  translated  it  means  :  As  soon  as  the  bright 
star  has  gleamed  forth  to  the  sailors,  the  troubled  water  recedes 


60  EDMUND  BURKE, 

Defluit  saxis  agitatus  humor ; 
Concidunt  venti,  fugluntque  nubes, 
Et  minax  (quod  sic  voluere)  ponto 
Unda  recumbit." 

84.  The  very  same  year  the  County  Palatine  ^  of  Chester 
received  the  same  relief  from  its  oppressions  and  the  same 
remedy  to  its  disorders.  Before  this  time  Chester  was  lit- 
tle less  distempered  than  Wales.  The  inhabitants,  without 
rights  themselves,  were  the  fittest  to  destroy  the  rights  of 
others  ;  and  from  thence  Richard  the  Second  drew  the  stand- 
ing army  of  archers  with  which  for  a  time  he  oppressed 
England.  The  people  of  Chester  applied  to  Parliament  in 
a  petition  penned  as  I  shall  read  to  you  :  — 

85.  "  To  the  King,  our  Sovereign  Lord,  in  most  bumble  wise 

shewen  unto  your  excellent  Majesty  the  inhabitants 
of  your  Grace's  County  Palatine  of  Chester  :  (1)  That 
where  the  said  County  Palatine  of  Chester  is  and  hath 
been  always  hitherto  exempt,  excluded,  and  separated 
out  and  from  your  High  Court  of  Parliament,  to  have 
any  Knights  and  Burgesses  within  the  said  Court ;  by 
reason  whereof  the  said  inhabitants  have  hitherto  sus- 
tained manifold  disherisons,^  losses,  and  damages,  as 
well  in  their  lands,  goods,  and  bodies,  as  in  the  good, 
civil,  and  politic  governance  and  maintenance  of  the 
commonwealth  of  their  said  county ;  (2)  And  foras- 
much as  the  said  inhabitants  have  always  hitherto  been 
bound  by  the  Acts  and  Statutes  made  and  ordained 
by  your  said  Highness  and  your  most  noble  progeni- 
tors, by  authority  of  the  said  Court,  as  far  forth  as 
other  counties,  cities,  and  boroughs  have  been,  that 

from  the  rocks,  the  winds  die  away,  and  the  clouds  scatter.  And 
because  they  [the  gods]  have  so  willed,  the  threatening  wave 
subsides  upon  the  deep. 

1  County  Palatine  =  a  county  in  England  in  which  the 
count  or  owner  had  within  his  domain  the  power  of  a  king.  The 
word  Palatine  is  the  English  form  of  the  Latin  "  Palatinus,"  be- 
longing  to  the  king,  or  to  the  Palatine  Hill. 

2  disherisons  =  disinheritance. 


CONCILIATION   WITH  THE  COLONIES.       51 

have  had  their  Knights  and  Burgesses  within  your  said 
Court  of  Parliament,  and  yet  have  had  neither  Knight 
ne  *  Burgess  there  for  the  said  County  Palatine ;  the 
said  inhabitants,  for  lack  thereof,  have  been  often- 
times touched  and  grieved  with  Acts  and  Statutes 
made  within  the  said  Court,  as  well  derogatory  unto 
the  most  ancient  jurisdictions,  liberties,  and  privileges 
of  your  said  County  Palatine,  as  prejudicial  unto  the 
commonwealth,  quietness,  rest,  and  peace  of  your 
Grace's  most  boundeu  subjects  inhabiting  within  the 


86.  What  did  Parliament  with  this  audacious  address  ?  — 
Reject  it  as  a  libel  ?  Treat  it  as  an  affront  to  government  ? 
Spurn  it  as  a  derogation  from  the  rights  of  legislature? 
Did  they  toss  it  over  the  table  ?  Did  they  burn  it  by  the 
hands  of  the  common  hangman  ?  —  They  took  the  petition 
of  grievance,  all  rugged  as  it  was,  without  softening  or  tem- 
perament,^ unpurged  of  the  original  bitterness  and  indigna- 
tion of  complaint  —  they  made  it  the  very  preamble  to  their 
Act  of  redress,  and  consecrated  its  principle  to  all  ages  in 
the  sanctuary  of  legislation. 

87.  Here  is  my  third  example.  It  was  attended  with  the 
success  of  the  two  former.  Chester,  civilized  as  well  as 
Wales,  has  demonstrated  that  freedom,  and  not  servitude, 
is  the  cure  of  anarchy  ;  as  religion,  and  not  atheism,  is  the 
true  remedy  for  superstition.  Sir,  this  pattern  of  Chester 
was  followed  in  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second  with  re* 
gard  to  the  County  Palatine  of  Durham,  which  is  my  fourth 
example.  This  county  had  long  lain  out  of  the  pale  ^  of 
free  legislation.     So  scrupulously  was  the  example  of  Ches- 

^  ne  =  an  A.-S.  conjunction  meaning  nor. 
2  temperament ;  used  in  the  sense  of  "  modification.'* 
*  out  of  the  pale.     The  English  pale  was  that  part  of  Ire- 
land in  which  English  law  was  recognized  and   administered. 
What  does  the  author  mean,  therefore,  by  the  metaphor  "  out 
«f  the  pale  of  free  legislation  "  ? 


52  EDMUND  BURKE. 

ter  followed  that  the  style  of  the  preamble  is  nearly  the 
same  with  that  of  the  Chester  Act ;  and,  without  affecting 
the  abstract  extent  of  the  authority  of  Parliament,  it  recog- 
nizes the  equity  of  not  suffering  any  considerable  district  in 
which  the  British  subjects  may  act  as  a  body,  to  be  taxed 
without  their  own  voice  in  the  grant. 

88.  Now  if  the  doctrines  of  policy  contained  in  these 
preambles,  and  the  force  of  these  examples  in  the  Acts  of 
Parliaments,  avail  anything,  what  can  be  said  against  ap- 
plying them  with  regard  to  America  ?  Are  not  the  people 
of  America  as  much  Englishmen  as  the  Welsh  ?  The  pre- 
amble of  the  Act  of  Henry  the  Eighth  says  the  Welsh 
speak  a  language  no  way  resembling  that  of  his  Majesty's 
English  subjects.  Are  the  Americans  not  as  numerous  ? 
If  we  may  trust  the  learned  and  accurate  Judge  Barring- 
ton's  account  of  North  Wales,  and  take  that  as  a  standard 
to  measure  the  rest,  there  is  no  comparison.  The  people 
cannot  amount  to  above  200,000  ;  not  a  tenth  part  of  the 
number  in  the  colonies.  Is  America  in  rebellion  ?  Wales 
was  hardly  ever  free  from  it.  Have  you  attempted  to  gov- 
ern America  by  penal  statutes  ?  You  made  fifteen  for 
Wales.  But  your  legislative  authority  is  perfect  with  re- 
gard to  America.  Was  it  less  perfect  in  Wales,  Chester, 
and  Durham  ?  But  America  is  virtually  represented. 
What !  does  the  electric  force  of  virtual  representation 
more  easily  pass  over  the  Atlantic  than  pervade  Wales, 
which  lies  in  your  neighborhood  —  or  than  Chester  and 
Durham,  surrounded  by  abundance  of  representation  that 
is  actual  and  palpable  ?  But,  Sir,  your  ancestors  thought 
this  sort  of  virtual  representation,  however  ample,  to  be 
totally  insufficient  for  the  freedom  of  the  inhabitants  oi 
territories  that  are  so  near,  and  comparatively  so  inconsid- 
erable. How  then  can  I  think  it  sufficient  for  those  which 
are  infinitely  greater,  and  infinitely  more  remote  ? 

89.  You  will  now,  Sir,  perhaps  imagine  that  I  am  on  the 
|K)int  of  proposing  to  you  a  scheme  for  a  representation  of 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       53 

the  colonies  in  Parliament.  Perhaps  I  might  be  inclined 
to  entertain  some  such  thought ;  but  a  great  flood  stops  me 
in  my  course.  Opposuit  natura?  —  I  cannot  remove  the 
eternal  barriers  of  the  creation.  The  thing,  in  that  mode, 
I  do  not  know  to  be  possible.  .  As  I  meddle  with  no  theory, 
I  do  not  absolutely  assert  the  impracticability  of  such  a  rep« 
resentation ;  but  I  do  not  see  my  way  to  it,  and  those  who 
have  been  more  confident  have  not  been  more  successful. 
However,  the  arm  of  public  benevolence  is  not  shortened,^ 
and  there  are  often  several  means  to  the  same  end.  What 
nature  has  disjoined  in  one  way,  wisdom  may  unite  in  an- 
other. When  we  cannot  give  the  benefit  as  we  would  wish, 
let  us  not  refuse  it  altogether.  If  we  cannot  give  the  prin- 
cipal, let  us  find  a  substitute.  But  how  ?  Where  ?  What 
substitute  ? 

90.  Fortunately  I  am  not  obliged,  for  the  ways  and 
means  of  this  substitute,  to  tax  my  own  unproductive  in- 
vention. I  am  not  even  obliged  to  go  to  the  rich  treasury 
of  the  fertile  f ramers  of  imaginary  commonwealths  ^  —  not 
to  the  Republic  of  Plato,  not  to  the  Utopia  of  More,  not  to 
the  Oceana  of  Harrington.  It  is  before  me  —  it  is  at  my 
feet, 

"  And  the  rude  swain  * 
Treads  daily  on  it  with  his  clouted  shoon." 

I  only  wish  you  to  recognize,  for  the  theory,  \he  ancient 
constitutional  policy  of  this  kingdom  with  regard  to  repre- 
sentation, as  that  policy  has  been  declared  in  Acts  of  Parlia- 
ment ;  and  as  to  the  practice,  to  return  to  that  mode  which 

*  Opposuit  natura  =  nature  has  opposed.     Juvenal,  X.  152. 
2  arm  is  not  sliortened.     An  allusion  to  Isaiah  lix.  1. 

2  imaginary  commonwealths  ;  three  works  of  fiction,  de- 
scribing a  state  of  society,  laws,  morals,  government,  altogether 
perfect  and  harmonious. 

*  and  the  rude  s-wain  ;  a  quotation  from  Milton's  Comus^ 
lines  634,  635,  "  and  the  dull  swain  treads  on  it  daily  with  his 
clouted  shoon." 


64  EDMUND  BURKE. 

a  uniform  experience  has  marked  out  to  you  as  best,  and  in 
which  you  walked  with  security,  advantage,  and  honor, 
until  the  year  1763. 

91.  My  Resolutions  therefore  mean  to  establish  the  equity 
II.  The  ^^d  justice  of  a  taxation  of  America  by  grant} 
CoNCBs^  and  not  by  imposition  ;  ^  to  mark  the  legal  com- 
HON.  petency  of  the  colony  Assemblies  for  the  support 
of  their  government  in  peace,  and  for  public  aids  in  time 
of  war ;  to  acknowledge  that  this  legal  competency  has 
had  a  dutiful  and  beneficial  exercise  ;  and  that  experience 
has  shown  the  benefit  of  their  grants,  and  the  futility  of 
Farliamentary  taxation  as  a  method  of  supply, 

92.  These  solid  truths  compose  six  fundamental  proposi- 
tions. There  are  three  more  Resolutions  corollary  to  these. 
If  you  admit  the  first  set,  you  can  hardly  reject  the  others. 
But  if  you  admit  the  first,  I  shall  be  far  from  solicitous 
whether  you  accept  or  refuse  the  last.  I  think  these  six 
massive  pillars  will  be  of  strength  sufficient  to  support  the 
temple  of  British  concord.  I  have  no  more  doubt  than  I 
entertain  of  my  existence  that,  if  you  admitted  these,  you 
would  command  an  immediate  peace,  and,  with  but  tolera- 
ble future  management,  a  lasting  obedience  ^  in  America. 
I  am  not  arrogant  in  this  confident  assurance.  The  propo- 
sitions are  all  mere  matters  of  fact,  and  if  they  are  such 
facts  as  drJiw  irresistible  conclusions  even  in  the  stating,  this 
is  the  power  of  truth,  and  not  any  management  of  mine. 

93.  Sir,  I  shall  open  the  whole  plan  to  you,  together  with 
such  observations  on  the  motions  as  may  tend  to  illustrate 
chem  where  they  may  want  explanation. 

'  by  grant,  i.  e.,  by  the  grant  of  the  colonial  Assemblies 
themselves. 

*^  by  imposition,  i.  e.,  by  means  of  a  tax  imposed  on  them 
by  Parliament. 

3  lasting  obedience.  Observe  how  frequently  throughout 
the  Speech  the  author  impresses  the  idea  of  the  importance  of  a 
lasting  obedience,  a  permanent  peace. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       56 

94.  The  first  is  a  Resolution  : 

•*  That  the  Colonies  and  Plantations  of  Great  Britain  in  North 
America,  consisting  of  fourteen  separate  Governments,  and 
containing  two  millions  and  upwards  of  free  inhabitants, 
have  not  had  the  liberty  and  privilege  of  electing  and  send- 
ing any  Knights  and  Burgesses,  or  others,  to  represent  them 
in  the  High  Court  of  Parliament." 

95.  This  is  a  plain  matter  of  fact,  necessary  to  be  laid 
4own,  and  (excepting  the  description)  it  is  laid  down  in  the 
language  of  the  Constitution ;  it  is  taken  nearly  verbatim 
from  Acts  of  Parliament. 

96.  The  second  is  like  unto  the  first  — 

"  That  the  said  Colonies  and  Plantations  have  been  liable  to, 
and  bounden  by,  several  subsidies,  payments,  rates,  and 
taxes  given  and  granted  by  Parliament,  though  the  said  Col- 
onies and  Plantations  have  not  their  Knights  and  Burgesses 
in  the  said  High  Court  of  Parliament,  of  their  own  election, 
to  represent  the  condition  of  their  country  ;  by  lack  whereof 
they  have  been  oftentimes  touched  and  grieved  by  subsidies 
given,  granted,  and  assented  to,  in  the  said  court,  in  a  man- 
ner prejudicial  to  the  commonwealth,  quietness,  rest,  and 
peace  of  the  subjects  inhabiting  within  the  same." 

97.  Is  this  description  too  hot,  or  too  cold  ;  too  strong,  or 
too  weak  ?  Does  it  arrogate  too  much  to  the  supreme  legis- 
lature ?  Does  it  lean  too  much  to  the  claims  of  the  peo- 
ple? If  it  runs  into  any  of  these  errors,  the  fault  is  not 
mine.  It  is  the  language  of  your  own  ancient  Acts  of  Par- 
liament. 

"  Non  mens  hie  sermo,^  sed  quse  praecepit  Ofellus, 
Rusticus,  ahnormis  sapiens." 

It  is  the  genuine  produce   of   the    ancient,  rustic,  manly,, 
homebred  sense  of  this  country.  —  I  did  not  dare  to  rub 

1  Non  mens  hie  sernio  ;  a  quotation  from  Horace,  Lib.  II 
Sat.  II.  2-3,  meaning,  "  This  language  is  not  mine,  but  that  which 
Ofellus  taught :  rustic,  but  wise  beyond  what  is  usual." 


56  EDMUND  BURKE. 

off  a  particle  of  the  venerable  rust  that  rather  adorns  and 
preserves,  than  destroys,  the  metal.  It  would  be  a  profa- 
nation to  touch  with  a  tool  the  stones  which  construct  the 
sacred  altar  of  peace.  I  would  not  violate  with  modern 
polish  the  ingenuous  and  noble  roughness  of  these  truly 
Constitutional  materials.  Above  all  things,  I  was  resolved 
not  to  be  guilty  of  tampering,  the  odious  vice  of  restless  and 
unstable  minds.  I  put  my  foot  in  the  tracks  of  our  fore- 
fathers, where  I  can  neither  wander  nor  stumble.  Deter- 
mining to  fix  articles  of  peace,  I  was  resolved  not  to  be 
wise  beyond  what  was  written  ;  ^  I  was  resolved  to  use 
nothing  else  than  the  form  of  sound  words,  to  let  others 
abound  in  their  own  sense,  and  carefully  to  abstain  from 
all  expressions  of  my  own.  What  the  law  has  said,  I  say. 
In  all  things  else  I  am  silent.  I  have  no  organ  but  for  her 
words.     This,  if  it  be  not  ingenious,  I  am  sure  is  safe. 

98.  There  are  indeed  words  expressive  of  grievance  in 
this  second  Resolution,  which  those  who  are  resolved  always 
to  be  in  the  right  will  deny  to  contain  matter  of  fact,  as 
applied  to  the  present  case,  although  Parliament  thought 
them  true  with  regard  to  the  counties  of  Chester  and  Dur- 
ham. They  will  deny  that  the  Americans  were  ever 
*'  touched  and  grieved  "  with  the  taxes.  If  they  consider 
nothing  in  taxes  but  their  weight  as  pecuniary  impositions, 
there  might  be  some  pretence  for  this  denial ;  but  men  may 
be  sorely  touched  and  deeply  grieved  in  their  privileges,  as 
well  as  in  their  purses.  Men  may  lose  little  in  property 
by  the  act  which  takes  away  all  their  freedom.  When  a 
man  is  robbed  of  a  trifle  on  the  highway,  it  is  not  the  two- 
pence lost  that  constitutes  the  capital  outrage.  This  is  not 
confined  to  privileges.  Even  ancient  indulgences,  with- 
drawn without  offence  on  the  part  of  those  who  enjoyed 
such  favors,  operate  as  grievances.  But  were  the  Ameri- 
cans then  not  touched  and  grieved  by  the  taxes,  in  some 
measure,  .merely  as  taxes  ?     If  so,  why  were  they  almost 

^  what  Tvas  -written.     See  1  Cor.  iv.  6. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.      57 

all  either  wholly  repealed,  or  exceedingly  reduced  ?  Were 
they  not  touched  and  grieved  even  by  the  regulating  duties 
of  the  sixth  of  George  the  Second  ?  ^  Else,  why  were  the 
duties  first  reduced  to  one  third  in  1764,  and  afterwards  to 
a  third  of  that  third  in  the  year  1766?  Were  they  not 
touched  and  grieved  by  the  Stamp  Act  ?  I  shall  say  they 
were,  until  that  tax  is  revived.  Were  they  not  touched  and 
grieved  by  the  duties  of  1767,  which  were  likewise  repealed, 
and  which  Lord  Hillsborough  tells  you,  for  the  Ministry, 
were  laid  contrary  to  the  true  principle  of  commerce  ?  Is 
not  the  assurance  given  by  that  noble  person  to  the  colonies 
of  a  resolution  to  lay  no  more  taxes  on  them  an  admission 
that  taxes  would  touch  and  grieve  them  ?  Is  not  the  Reso- 
lution of  the  noble  lord  in  the  blue  ribbon,  now  standing  on 
your  Journals,  the  strongest  of  all  proofs  that  Parliamentary 
subsidies  really  touched  and  grieved  them  ?  Else  why  all 
these  changes,  modifications,  repeals,  assurances,  and  reso- 
lutions ? 

99.  The  next  proposition  is  — 

"  That,  from  the  distance  of  the  said  Colonies,  and  from  other 
circumstances,  no  method  hath  hitherto  been  devised  for 
procuring  a  representation  in  Parliament  for  the  said 
Colonies." 

100.  This  is  an  assertion  of  a  fact.  I  go  no  further  on 
the  paper,  though,  in  my  private  judgment,  a  useful  repre- 
sentation is  impossible  —  I  am  sure  it  is  not  desired  by 
them,  nor  ought  it  perhaps  by  us  —  but  I  abstain  from 
opinions. 

101.  The  fourth  Resolution  is  — 

"  That  each  of  the  said  Colonies  hath  within  itself  a  body, 
chosen  in  part,  or  in  the  whole,  by  the  freemen,  freeholders, 
or  other  free  inhabitants  thereof,  commonly  called  the  Gen-» 
eral  Assembly,  or  General  Court  ;  with  powers  legally  to 
raise,  levy,  and  assess,  according  to  the  several  usage  of 

*  the  Sixth  of  George  the  Second,  i.  e,,  the  sixth  Act. 


68  EDMUND  BURKE. 

such  colonies,  duties  and  taxes  towards  defraying  all  sorts 
of  public  services." 

102.  This  competence  in  the  colony  Assemblies  is  cer- 
tain. It  is  proved  by  the  whole  tenor  oi'  their  Acts  of 
Supply  in  all  the  Assemblies,  in  which  the  constant  style  of 
granting  is,  "  an  aid  to  his  Majesty  ;  "  ^  and  Acts  granting 
to  the  crown  have  regularly  for  near  a  century  passed  the 
public  offices  without  dispute.  Those  who  have  been 
pleased  paradoxically  to  deny  this  right,  holding  that  none 
but  the  British  Parliament  can  grant  to  the  crown,  are 
wished  to  look  to  what  is  done,  not  only  in  the  colonies, 
but  in  Ireland,  in  one  uniform  unbroken  tenor  every  session. 
Sir,  I  am  surprised  that  this  doctrine  should  come  from 
some  of  the  law  servants  of  the  crown.  I  say  that  if  the 
crown  could  be  responsible,  his  Majesty  —  but  certainly 
the  Ministers,  —  and  even  these  law  officers  themselves 
through  whose  hands  the  Acts  passed,  biennially  in  Ireland, 
or  annually  in  the  colonies  —  are  in  an  habitual  course  of 
committing  impeachable  offences.  What  habitual  offenders 
have  been  all  Presidents  of  the  Council,  all  Secretaries 
of  State,  all  First  Lords  of  Trade,  all  Attorneys  and  all 
Solicitors-General !  However,  they  are  safe,  as  no  one 
impeaches  them  ;  and  there  is  no  ground  of  charge  against 
them  except  in  their  own  unfounded  theories. 

103.  The  fifth  Resolution  is  also  a  resolution  of  fact  — 

**  That  the  said  General  Assemblies,  General  Courts,  or  other 
bodies  legally  qualified  as  aforesaid,  have  at  sundry  times 
freely  granted  several  large  subsidies  and  public  aids  for 
his  Majesty's  service,  according  to  their  abilities,  when  re- 
quired thereto  by  letter  from  one  of  his  Majesty's  principal 
Secretaries  of  State  ;  and  that  their  right  to  grant  the 
same,  and   their  cheerfulness    and   sufficiency  in   the    said 

^  aid  to  his  Majesty  ;  aids  were  originally  grants  of  money 
made  by  tenants  to  their  lords  of  their  own  free  will,  and  on 
particular  occasions.  They  afterwards  became  real  taxes.  The 
word  is  here  used  in  its  original  sense. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       59 

grants,  have  been  at  sundry  times  acknowledged  by  Parlia* 
ment." 

104.  To  say  nothing  of  their  great  expenses  in  the  Indian 
vrars,  and  not  to  take  their  exertion  in  foreign  ones  so  high 
as  the  supplies  in  the  year  1695  —  not  to  go  back  to  their 
public  contributions  in  the  year  1710  —  I  shall  begin  to 
travel  only  where  the  Journals  give  nie  light,  resolving  to 
deal  in  nothing  but  fact,  authenticated  by  Parliamentary 
record,  and  to  build  myself  wholly  on  that  solid  basis. 

105.  On  the  4th  of  April,  1748,  a  Committee  of  this 
House  came  to  the  following  resolution  : 

"  Resolved  :  That  it  is  the  opinion  of  this  Committee  that  it  is 
just  and  reasonable  that  the  several  Provinces  and  Colonies 
of  Massachusetts  Bay,  New  Hampshire,  Connecticut,  and 
Rhode  Island,  be  reimbursed  the  expenses  they  have  been 
at  in  taking  and  securing  to  the  Crown  of  Great  Britain  the 
Island  of  Cape  Breton  and  its  dependencies." 

106.  These  expenses  were  immense  for  such  colonies. 
They  were  above  £200,000  sterling ;  money  first  raised  and 
advanced  on  their  public  credit. 

107.  On  the  28th  of  January,  1756,  a  message  from  the 
King  came  to  us,  to  this  effect : 

"  His  Majesty,  being  sensible  of  the  zeal  and  vigor  with  which 
his  faithful  subjects  of  certain  Colonies  in  North  America 
have  exerted  themselves  in  defence  of  his  Majesty's  just 
rights  and  possessions,  recommends  it  to  this  House  to  take 
the  same  into  their  consideration,  and  to  enable  his  Majesty 
to  give  them  such  assistance  as  may  be  a  proper  reward  and 
encouragement." 

108.  On  the  3d  of  February,  1756,  the  House  came  to  a 
suitable  Resolution,  expressed  in  words  nearly  the  same  as 
those  of  the  message,  but  with  the  further  addition,  that  the 
money  then  voted  was  as  an  encouragement  to  the  colonies 
to  exert  themselves  with  vigor.  It  will  not  be  necessary  to 
go  through  all  the  testimonies  which  your  own  records  have 


60  EDMUND  BURKE. 

given  to  the  truth  of  my  Resolutions.     I  will  only  refer  you 
to  the  places  in  the  Journals : 

Vol.   xxvii.  —  16th  and  19th  May,  1757. 

Vol.  xxviii.  —  June  1st,  1758  ;  April   26th   and  30th,  1759 ; 

March  26th  and  31st,  and  April  28th,  1760  ; 

Jan.  9th  and  20th,  1761. 
Vol.    xxix.  —  Jan.  22d  and  26th,  1762  ;  March  14th  and  17th, 

1763. 

109.  Sir,  here  is  the  repeated  acknowledgment  of  Par- 
liament that  the  colonies  not  only  gave,  but  gave  to  satiety. 
This  nation  has  formally  acknowledged  two  things  :  first, 
that  the  colonies  had  gone  beyond  their  abilities,  Parlia- 
ment having  thought  it  necessary  to  reimburse  them ; 
secondly,  that  they  had  acted  legally  and  laudably  in  their 
grants  of  money,  and  their  maintenance  of  troops,  since  the 
compensation  is  expressly  given  as  reward  and  encourage- 
ment. Reward  is  not  bestowed  for  acts  that  are  unlawful ; 
and  encouragement  is  not  held  out  to  things  that  deserve 
reprehension.  My  Resolution  therefore  does  nothing  more 
than  collect  into  one  proposition  what  is  scattered  through 
your  Journals.  I  give  you  nothing  but  your  own ;  and 
you  cannot  refuse  in  the  gross  what  you  have  so  often 
acknowledged  in  detail.  The  admission  of  this,  which  will 
be  so  honorable  to  them  and  to  you,  will,  indeed,  be  mortal 
to  all  the  miserable  stories  by  which  the  passions  of  the 
misguided  people  have  been  engaged  in  an  unhappy  system. 
The  people  heard,  indeed,  from  the  beginning  of  these 
disputes,  one  thing  continually  dinned  in  their  ears,  that 
reason  and  justice  demanded  that  the  Americans,  who  paid 
no  taxes,  should  be  compelled  to  contribute.  How  did  that 
fact  of  their  paying  nothing  stand  when  the  taxing  sys- 
tem began  ?  When  Mr.  Grenville  ^  began  to  form  his 
system  of  American  revenue,  he  stated  in  this  House  that 
the  colonies  were  then  in   debt  two  millions  six  hundred 

1  Mr.  Grenville  ;  George  Grenville,  said  to  be  the  author  of 
the  Stamp  Act. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.      61 

thousand  pounds  sterling  money,  and  was  of  opinion  they 
would  discharge  that  debt  in  four  years.  On  this  state,* 
those  untaxed  people  were  actually  subject  to  the  payment 
of  taxes  to  the  amount  of  six  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
a  year.  In  fact,  however,  Mr.  Grenville  was  mistaken. 
The  funds  given  for  sinking  the  debt  did  not  prove  quite 
so  ample  as  both  the  colonies  and  he  expected.  The 
calculation  was  too  sanguine ;  the  reduction  was  not  com- 
pleted till  some  years  after,  and  at  different  times  in  differ* 
ent  colonies.  HowcAjer,  the  taxes  after  the  war  continued 
too  great  to  bear  any  addition,  with  prudence  or  propriety ; 
and  when  the  burthens  imposed  in  consequence  of  former 
requisitions  were  discharged,  our  tone  became  too  high  to 
resort  again  to  requisition.  No  colony,  since  that  time, 
ever  has  had  any  requisition  whatsoever  made  to  it 

110.  We  see  the  sense  of  the  crown,  and  the  sense  of 
Parliament,  on  the  productive  nature  of  a  revenue  by 
grant.  Now  search  the  same  Journals  for  the  produce  of 
the  revenue  hy  imposition.  Where  is  it?  Let  us  know 
the  volume  and  the  page.  What  is  the  gross,  what  is  the 
net  produce  ?  To  what  service  is  it  applied  ?  How  have 
you  appropriated  its  surplus  ?  What !  Can  none  of  the 
many  skilful  index-makers  that  we  are  now  employing  find 
any  trace  of  it  ?  —  Well,  let  them  and  that  rest  together. 
But  are  the  Journals,  which  say  nothing  of  the  revenue,  as 
silent  on  the  discontent  ?  Oh  no !  a  child  may  find  it.  It? 
is  the  melancholy  burthen  and  blot  of  every  page. 

111.  I  think,  then,  I  am,  from  those  Journals,  justified 
in  the  sixth  and  last  Resolution,  which  is  — 

"  That  it  hath  been  found  by  experience  that  the  manner  of 
granting  the  said  supplies  and  aids,  by  the  said  General 
Assemblies,  hath  been  more  agreeable  to  the  said  Colonies, 
and  more  beneficial  and  conducive  to  the  public  service, 
than  the  mode  of  giving  and  granting  aids  in  Parliament, 
to  be  raised  and  paid  in  the  said  Colonies." 

1  on  tMs  state  =  statement. 


62  EDMUND  BURKE. 

112.  This  makes  the  whole  of  the  fundamental  part  of 
the  plan.  The  conclusion  is  irresistible.  You  cannot  say 
that  you  were  driven  by  any  necessity  to  an  exercise  of 
the  utmost  rights  of  legislature.  You  cannot  assert  that 
you  took  on  yourselves  the  task  of  imposing  colony  taxes 
from  the  want  of  another  legal  body  that  is  competent  to 
the  purpose  of  supplying  the  exigencies  of  the  state  with- 
out wounding  the  prejudices  of  the  people.  Neither  is  it 
true  that  the  body  so  qualified,  and  having  that  compe- 
tence, had  neglected  the  duty.  ♦ 

113.  The  question  now  on  all  this  accumulated  matter. 
The  Con-  is :  whether  you  will  choose  to  abide  by  a  profit- 
§113  to'  able  experience,  or  a  mischievous  theory  ;  whether 
^^^'  you  choose  to  build  on  imagination,  or  fact ; 
whether  you  prefer  enjoyment,  or  hope  ;  satisfaction  in  your 
subjects,  or  discontent  ? 

114.  If  these  propositions  are  accepted,  everything  which 
has  been  made  to  enforce  a  contrary  system  must, 
I  take  it  for  granted,  fall  along  with  it.     On  that 

Sy^Buriw.     g^ound,  I  have  drawn  the  following  Resolution, 
which,  when  it  comes  to  be  moved,  will  naturally 
be  divided  in  a  proper  manner : 

"  That  it  may  be  proper  to  repeal  an  Act  made  in  the  seventh 
year  of  the  reign  of  his  present  Majesty,  entitled,  An  Act 
for  granting  certain  duties  in  the  British  Colonies  and  Plan- 
tations in  America  ;  for  allowing  a  drawback  ^  of  the  duties 
of  customs  upon  the  exportation  from  this  Kingdom  of 
coffee  and  cocoa-nuts  of  the  produce  of  the  said  Colonies 
or  Plantations  ;  for  discontinuing  the  drawbacks  payable 
on  china  earthenware  exported  to  America  ;  and  for  more 
ejffectually  preventing  the  clandestine  running  of  goods  in 
the  said  Colonies  and  Plantations.  And  that  it  may  be 
proper  to  repeal  an  Act  made  in  the  fourteenth  year  of  the 
reign  of  his  present  Majesty,  entitled,  An  Act  to  discon- 

*  dra'wbacks  were  sums  of  money  allowed  to  a  merchant  on 
the  re-exportation  of  goods  upon  which  duties  had  been  paid. 


I.  Resolu- 
tions 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES,       63 

tinue,  in  such  manner  and  for  such  time  as  are  therein 
mentioned,  the  landing  and  discharging,  lading  or  shipping 
of  goods,  wares,  and  merchandise  at  the  town  and  within 
the  harbor  of  Boston,  in  the  Province  of  Massachusetts  Bay, 
in  North  America.  And  that  it  may  be  proper  to  repeal  an 
Act  made  in  the  fourteenth  year  of  the  reign  of  his  present 
Majesty,  intitled.  An  Act  for  the  impartial  administration 
of  justice  in  the  cases  of  persons  questioned  for  any  acts 
done  by  them  in  the  execution  of  the  law,  or  for  the  sup- 
pression of  riots  and  tumults,  in  the  Province  of  Massachu- 
setts Bay,  in  New  England.  And  that  it  may  be  proper 
to  repeal  an  Act  made  in  the  fourteenth  year  of  the  reign 
of  his  present  Majesty,  intitled,  An  Act  for  the  better 
regulating  of  the  Government  of  the  Province  of  the 
Massachusetts  Bay,  in  New  England.  And  also  that  it 
may  be  proper  to  explain  and  amend  an  Act  made  in  the 
thirty-fifth  year  of  the  reign  of  King  Henry  the  Eighth, 
intitled,  An  Act  for  the  Trial  of  Treasons  committed  out  of 
the  King's  Dominions." 

115.  I  wish,  Sir,  to  repeal  the  Boston  Port  Bill,  because 
— independently  of  the  dangerous  precedent  of  suspending 
the  rights  of  the  subject  during  the  King's  pleasure  —  it 
was  passed,  as  I  apprehend,  with  less  regularity  and  on 
more  partial  principles  than  it  ought.  The  corporation  of 
Boston  was  not  heard  before  it  was  condemned.  Other 
towns,  full  as  guilty  as  she  was,  have  not  had  their  ports 
blocked  up.  Even  the  Restraining  Bill^  of  the  present 
session  does  not  go  to  the  length  of  the  Boston  Port  Act. 
The  same  ideas  of  prudence  which  induced  you  not  to 
extend  equal  punishment  to  equal  guilt,  even  when  you 
were  punishing,  induced  me,  who  mean  not  to  chastise,  but 
to  reconcile,  to  be  satisfied  with  the  punishment  already 
partially  inflicted. 

116.  Ideas  of  prudence  and  accommodation  to  circum- 
stances prevent  you  from  taking  away  the  charters  of  Con- 

1  Restraining  Bill.  See  note  on  grand  penal  bill,  para- 
graph 1. 


64  EDMUND  BURKE. 

necticut  and  Rhode  Island,  as  you  have  taken  away  that  of 
Massachusetts  Colony,  though  the  crown  has  far  less  power 
in  the  two  former  provinces  than  it  enjoyed  in  the  latter, 
and  though  the  abuses  have  been  full  as  great,  and  as 
flagrant,  in  the  exempted  as  in  the  punished.  The  same 
reasons  of  prudence  and  accommodation  have  weight  with 
me  in  restoring  the  Charter  of  Massachusetts  Bay.  Be- 
sides, Sir,  the  Act  which  changes  the  charter  of  Massachu- 
setts is  in  many  particulars  so  exceptionable  that  if  I  did 
not  wish  absolutely  to  repeal,  I  would  by  all  means  desire 
to  alter  it,  as  several  of  its  provisions  tend  to  the  subversion 
of  all  public  and  private  justice.  Such,  among  others,  is 
the  power  in  the  Governor  to  change  the  sheriff  at  his 
pleasure,  and  to  make  a  new  returning  officer  for  every 
special  cause.  It  is  shameful  to  behold  such  a  regulation 
standing  among  English  laws. 

117.  The  Act  for  bringing  persons  accused  of  commit- 
ting murder,  under  the  orders  of  government  to  England 
for  trial,  is  but  temporary.  That  Act  has  calculated  the 
probable  duration  of  our  quarrel  with  the  colonies,  and  is 
accommodated  to  that  supposed  duration.  I  would  hasten 
the  happy  moment  of  reconciliation,  and  therefore  must,  on 
my  principle,  get  rid  of  that  most  justly  obnoxious  Act. 

118.  The  Act  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  for  the  Trial  of 
Treasons,  I  do  not  mean  to  take  away,  but  to  confine  it  to 
its  proper  bounds  and  original  intention;  to  make  it  ex- 
pressly for  trial  of  treasons  —  and  the  greatest  treasons 
may  be  committed  —  in  places  where  the  jurisdiction  of 
the  crown  does  not  extend. 

119.  Having  guarded  the  privileges  of  local  legislature, 
I  would  next  secure  to  the  colonies  a  fair  and  unbiased 
judicature,  for  which  purpose,  Sir,  I  propose  the  following 
Resolution :  ^ 

"  That,  from  the  time  when  the  General  Assembly  or  General 

Court  of  any  Colony  or  Plantation  in  North  America  shall 

^    have  appointed  by  Act  of  Assembly,  duly  confirmed,  a  set- 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       65 

tied  salary  to  the  offices  of  the  Chief  Justice  and  other 
Judges  of  the  Superior  Court,  it  may  be  proper  that  the 
said  Chief  Justice  and  other  Judges  of  the  Superior  Courts 
of  such  Colony  shall  hold  his  and  their  office  and  offices 
during  their  good  behavior,  and  shall  not  be  removed  there- 
from but  when  the  said  removal  shall  be  adjudged  by  his 
Majesty  in  Council,  upon  a  hearing  on  complaint  from  the 
General  Assembly,  or  on  a  complaint  from  the  Governor, 
or  Council,  or  the  House  of  Representatives  severally,  or 
of  the  Colony  in  which  the  said  Chief  Justice  and  other 
Judges  have  exercised  the  said  offices." 

120.  The  next  Resolution  relates  to  the  Courts  of  Ad- 
Tniralty.^     It  is  this  : 

"  That  it  may  be  proper  to  regulate  the  Courts  of  Admiralty 
or  Vice-Admiralty  authorized  by  the  fifteenth  Chapter  of 
the  Fourth  of  George  the  Third,  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
make  the  same  more  commodious  to  those  who  sue,  or  are 
sued,  in  the  said  Courts,  and  to  provide  for  the  more  decent 
maintenance  of  the  Judges  in  the  same." 

121.  These  courts  I  do  not  wish  to  take  away;  they 
are  in  themselves  proper  establishments.  This  court  is  one 
of  the  capital  securities  of  the  Act  of  Navigation.  The 
extent  of  its  jurisdiction,  indeed,  has  been  increased,  but 
this  is  altogether  as  proper,  and  is  indeed  on  many  ac- 
counts more  eligible,  where  new  powers  were  wanted, 
than  a  court  absolutely  new.  But  courts  incommodiously 
situated,  in  effect,  deny  justice  ;  and  a  court  partaking  in 
the  fruits  of  its  own  condemnation  is  a  robber.  The  Con- 
gress complain,  and  complain  justly,  of  this  grievance. 

122.  These  are  the  three  consequential  propositions.  I 
have  thought  of  two  or  three  more,  but  they  come  rather 
too  near  detail,  and  to  the  province  of  executive  govern- 
ment, which  I  wish  Parliament  always  to  superintend, 
never  to  assume.  If  the  first  six  are  granted,  congruity 
will  carry  the  latter  three.     If  not,  the  things  that  remain 

^  Admiralty  Courts  had  jurisdiction  in  maritime  cases. 


66  EDMUND  BURKE. 

unrepealed  will  be,  I  hope,  rather  unseemly  incumbrances 
on  the  building,  than  very  materially  detrimental  to  its 
strength  and  stability. 

123.  Here,  Sir,  I  should  close ;   but  I  plainly  perceive 

some  objections  remain  which  I  ought,  if  possible, 
tions  au-       to  rcmovc.     The  first  will  be  that  in  resorting  to 

the  doctrine  of  our  ancestors  as  contained  in  the 
preamble  to  the  Chester  Act,  I  prove  too  much ;  that  the 
grievance  from  a  want  of  representation,  stated  in  that 
preamble,  goes  to  the  whole  of  legislation  as  well  as  to  taxa- 
tion ;  and  that  the  colonies,  grounding  themselves  upon  that 
doctrine,  will  apply  it  to  all  parts  of  legislative  authority. 

124.  To  this  objection,  with  all  possible  deference  and 
humility,  and  wishing  as  little  as  any  man  living  to  impair 
the  smallest  particle  of  our  supreme  authority,  I  answer, 
tliat  the  words  are,  words  of  Parliament  and  not  minej 
and  that  all  false  and  inconclusive  inferences  drawn  from 
them  are  not  mine,  for  I  heartily  disclaim  any  such  infer- 
ence. I  have  chosen  the  Words  of  an  Act  of  Parliament 
which  Mr.  Grenville,  surely  a  tolerably  zealous  and  very 
judicious  advocate  for  the  sovereignty  of  Parliament,  for- 
merly moved  to  have  read  at  your  table  in  confirmation  of 
his  tenets.  It  is  true  that  Lord  Chatham  considered  these 
preambles  as  declaring  strongly  in  favor  of  his  opinions. 
He  was  a  no  less  powerful  advocate  for  the  privileges  of 
the  Americans.  Ought  I  not  from  hence  to  presume  that 
these  preambles  are  as  favorable  as  possible  to  both,  when 
properly  understood ;  favorable  both  to  the  rights  of  Par- 
liament, and  to  the  privilege  of  the  dependencies  of  this 
crown  ?  But,  Sir,  the  object  of  grievance  in  my  Resolu- 
tion I  have  not  taken  from  the  Chester,  but  from  the 
Durham  Act,  which  confines  the  hardship  of  want  of  repre- 
sentation to  the  case  of  subsidies,  and  which  therefore  falls 
in  exactly  with  the  case  of  the  colonies.  But  whether  the 
unrepresented  counties  were  de  jure  or  de  facto  bound,  the 
preambles  do  not  accurately  distinguish,  nor  indeed  was  it 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES,      67 

necessary ;  for,  whether  de  jure  or  de  facto,  the  Legisla- 
ture thought  the  exercise  of  the  power  of  taxing  as  of 
right,  or  as  of  fact  without  right,  equally  a  grievance,  and 
equally  oppressive. 

125.  I  do  not  know  that  the  colonies  have,  in  any  gen- 
eral way,  or  in  any  cool  hour,  gone  much  beyond  the 
demand  of  immunity  in  relation  to  taxes.  It  is  not  fair  to 
judge  of  the  temper  or  dispositions  of  any  man,  or  any  set 
of  men,  when  they  are  composed  and  at  rest,  from  their 
conduct  or  their  expressions  in  a  state  of  disturbance  and 
irritation.  It  is  besides  a  very  great  mistake  to  imagine 
that  mankind  follow  up  practically  any  speculative  prin- 
ciple, either  of  government  or  of  freedom,  as  far  as  it  will 
go  in  argument  and  logical  illation.  We  Englishmen  stop 
very  short  of  the  principles  upon  which  we  support  an^ 
given  part  of  our  Constitution,  or  even  the  whole  of  it 
together.  I  could  easily,  if  I  had  not  already  tired  you, 
give  you  very  striking  and  convincing  instances  of  it.  This 
is  nothing  but  what  is  natural  and  proper.  All  govern- 
ment, indeed  every  human  benefit  and  enjoyment,  every 
virtue,  and  every  prudent  act,  is  founded  on  compromise 
and  barter.  We  balance  inconveniences  ;  we  give  and 
take;  we  remit  some  rights,  that  we  may  enjoy  others; 
and  we  choose  rather  to  be  happy  citizens  than  subtle  dis- 
putants. As  we  must  give  away  some  natural  liberty  to 
enjoy  civil  advantages,  so  we  must  sacrifice  some  civil 
liberties  for  the  advantages  to  be  derived  from  the  coni' 
munion  and  fellowship  of  a  great  empire.  But,  in  all  fair 
dealings,  the  thing  bought  must  bear  some  proportion  to 
the  purchase  paid.  None  will  barter  away  the  immediate 
jewel  ^  of  his  soul.  Though  a  great  house  is  apt  to  make 
slaves  haughty,  yet  it  is  purchasing  a  part  of  the  artificial 
importance  of  a  great  empire  too  dear  to  pay  for  it  all  es- 
sential rights  and  all  the  intrinsic  dignity  of  human  nature. 
None  of  us  who  would  not  risk  his  life  rather  than  fall 

'  immediate  jewel*    See  OtheUo,  III.  3,  line  156. 


68  EDMUND  BURKE. 

under  a  government  purely  arbitrary.  But  although  there 
are  some  amongst  us  who  think  our  Constitution  wants 
many  improvements  to  make  it  a  complete  system  of  lib- 
erty, perhaps  none  who  are  of  that  opinion  would  think 
it  right  to  aim  at  such  improvement  by  disturbing  his  coun- 
try, and  risking  everything  that  is  dear  to  him.  In  every 
arduous  enterprise  we  consider  what  we  are  to  lose,  as  well 
as  what  we  are  to  gain ;  and  the  more  and  better  stake  of 
liberty  every  people  possess,  the  less  they  will  hazard  in 
a  vain  attempt  to  make  it  more.  These  are  the  cords  of 
man}  Man  acts  from  adequate  motives  relative  to  his 
interest,  and  not  on  metaphysical  speculations.  Aristotle, 
the  great  master  of  reasoning,  cautions  us,  and  with  great 
weight  and  propriety,  against  this  species  of  delusive  geo- 
metrical accuracy  in  moral  arguments  as  the  most  fallacious 
of  all  sophistry. 

126.  The  Americans  will  have  no  interest  contrary  to 
the  grandeur  and  glory  of  England,  when  they  are  not 
oppressed  by  the  weight  of  it;  and  they  will  rather  be 
inclined,  to  respect  the  acts  of  a  superintending  legislature 
when  they  see  them  the  acts  of  that  power  which  is  itself 
the  security,  not  the  rival,  of  their  secondary  importance. 
In  this  assurance  my  mind  most  perfectly  acquiesces,  and 
I  confess  I  feel  not  the  least  alarm  from  the  discontents 
which  are  to  arise  from  putting  people  at  their  ease,  nor  do 
I  apprehend  the  destruction  of  this  empire  from  giving,  by 
an  act  of  free  grace  and  indulgence,  to  two  millions  of  my 
fellow-citizens  some  share  of  those  rights  upon  which  I  have 
always  been  taught  to  value  myself. 

127.  It  is  said,  indeed,  that  this  power  cf  granting, 
vested  in  American  assemblies,  would  dissolve  the  unity  of 
the  empire,  which  was  preserved  entire,  although  Wales, 
and  Chester,  and  Durham  were  added  to  it.  Truly,  Mr. 
Speaker,  I  do  not  know  what  this  unity  means,  nor  has  it 
ever  been  heard  of,  that  I  know,  in  the  constitutional  policy 

1  cords  of  man.    See  Hosea  xi.  4. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       69 

i)f  this  country.  The  very  idea  of  subordination  of  parts 
excludes  this  notion  of  simple  and  undivided  unity.  E.nQr- 
/and  is  the  head  ;  but  she  is  not  the  head  and  the  members 
too.  Ireland  has  ever  had  from  the  beginning  a  separate, 
but  not  an  independent,  legislature,  which,  far  from  dis- 
tracting, promoted  the  union  of  the  whole.  Everything 
was  sweetly  and  harmoniously  disposed  through  both  islands 
for  the  conservation  of  English  dominion,  and  the  communis 
cation  of  English  liberties.  I  do  not  see  that  the  same 
principles  might  not  be  carried  into  twenty  islands  and  with 
the  same  good  effect.  This  is  my  model  with  regard  to 
America,  as  far  as  the  internal  circumstances  of  the  two 
countries  are  the  same.  I  know  no  other  unity  of  this  em- 
j)ire  than  I  can  draw  from  its  example  during  these  periods, 
when  it  seemed,  to  my  poor  understanding  more  united  than 
it  is  now,  or  than  it  is  likely  to  be  by  the  })resent  methods. 

128.  But  since  1  speak  of  these  methods,  I  recollect,  Mr. 
Speaker,  almost  too  late,  that  I  promised,  before 

I  finished,  to  say  somethincj  of  the  proposition  of  objections 

,11        1  , ,         n  1  .    1       1  1  to  Lord 

the  noble  lord  on  the  floor,  which  has  been  so  North's 
lately  received  and  stands  on  your  Journals.  I 
must  be  deeply  concerned  whenever  it  is  my  misfortune  to 
continue  a  difference  with  the  majority  of  this  House  ;  but 
as  the  reasons  for  that  difference  are  my  apology  for  thus 
troubling  you,  suffer  me  to  state  them  in  a  very  few  words. 
I  shall  compress  them  into  as  small  a  body  as  I  possibly 
can,  having  already  debated  that  matter  at  large  when  the 
question  was  before  the  Committee. 

129.  First,  then,  I  cannot  admit  that  proposition  of  a 
ransom  by  auction  ;  because  it  is  a  mere  project.  It  is  a 
thing  new,  unheard  of ;  supported  by  no  experience  ;  jus- 
tified by  no  analogy  ;  without  example  of  our  ancestors, 
or  root  in  the  Constitution.  It  is  neither  regular  Parlia- 
mentary taxation,  nor  colony  grant.  Experimentum  in 
corpore  vili  ^  is  a  good  rule,  which  will  ever  make  me  adverse 

1  Experimentum  in  corpore  vili  :  "  The  experiment  should 
be  in  a  worthless  body." 


70  EDMUND  BURKE. 

to  any  trial  of  experiments  on  what  is  certainly  the  most 
valuable  of  all  subjects,  the  peace  of  this  empire. 

130.  Secondly,  it  is  an  experiment  which  must  be  fatal 
in  the  end  to  our  Constitution.  For  what  is  it  but  a  scheme 
for  taxing  the  colonies  in  the  ante-chamber  of  tlie  noble  lord 
and  his  successors  ?  To  settle  the  quotas  and  proportions 
in  this  House  is  clearly  impossible.  You,  Sir,  may  flatter 
yourself  you  shall  sit  a  state  auctioneer,  with  your  hammer 
in  your  hand,  and  knock  down  to  each  colony  as  it  bids. 
But  to  settle,  on  the  plan  laid  down  by  the  noble  lord,  the 
true  proportional  payment  for  four  or  five  and  twenty  gov' 
ernments  according  to  the  absolute  and  the  relative  wealth 
of  each,  and  according  to  the  British  proportion  of  wealth 
and  burthen,  is  a  wild,  and  chimerical  notion.  This  new 
taxation  must  therefore  come  in  by  the  back-door  of  the 
Constitution.  Each  quota  must  be  brought  to  this  House 
ready  formed ;  you  can  neither  add  nor  alter.  You  must 
register  it.  You  can  do  nothing  further ;  for  on  what 
grounds  can  you  deliberate  either  before  or  after  the  propo- 
sition ?  You  cannot  hear  the  counsel  for  all  these  prov- 
inces, quarrelling  each  on  its  own  quantity  of  payment, 
and  its  proportion  to  others.  If  you  should  attempt  it,  the 
Committee  of  Provincial  Ways  and  Means,  or  by  whatever 
otlier  name  it  will  delight  to  be  called,  must  swallow  up  all 
the  time  of  Parliament. 

131.  Thirdly,  it  does  not  give  satisfaction  to  the  com- 
plaint of  the  colonies.  They  complain  that  they  are  taxed 
without  their  consent ;  you  answer,  that  you  will  fix  the 
sum  at  which  they  shall  be  taxed.  That  is,  you  give  them 
the  very  grievance  for  the  remedy.  You  tell  them,  indeed, 
that  you  will  leave  the  mode  to  themselves.  I  really  beg 
pardon  —  it  gives  me  pain  to  mention  it  —  but  you  must  be 
sensible  that  you  will  not  perform  this  part  of  the  compact. 
For,  suppose  the  colonies  were  to  lay  the  duties,  which 
furnished  their  contingent,  upon  the  importation  of  your 
manufactures,  you  know  you  would  never  suffer  such  a  tax 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       71 

to  be  laid.  You  know,  too,  that  you  would  not  suffer  many- 
other  modes  of  taxation  ;  so  that,  when  you  come  to  explain 
yourself,  it  will  be  found  that  you  will  neither  leave  to 
themselves  the  quantum  nor  the  mode,  nor  indeed  anything. 
The  whole  is  delusion  from  one  end  to  the  other. 

132.  Fourthly,  this  method  of  ransom  by  auction,  unless 
it  be  universally  accepted,  will  plunge  you  into  great  and 
inextricable  difficulties.  In  what  year  of  our  Lord  are  the 
proportions  of  payments  to  be  settled  ?  To  say  nothing  of 
the  impossibility  that  colony  agents  should  have  general 
powers  of  taxing  the  colonies  at  their  discretion,  consider,  I 
implore  you,  that  the  communication  by  special  messages 
and  orders  between  these  agents  and  their  constituents,  on 
each  variation  of  the  case,  when  the  parties  come  to  contend 
together  and  to  dispute  on  their  relative  proportions,  will  be 
a  matter  of  delay,  perplexity,  and  confusion  that  never  can 
have  an  end. 

133.  If  all  the  colonies  do  not  appear  at  the  outcry,  what 
is  the  condition  of  those  assemblies  who  offer,  by  them- 
selves or  their  agents,  to  tax  themselves  up  to  your  ideas 
of  their  proportion  ?  The  refractory  colonies  who  refuse  all 
composition  ^  will  remain  taxed  only  to  your  old  impositions, 
which,  however  grievous  in  principle,  are  trifling  as  to  pro- 
duction. The  obedient  colonies  in  this  scheme  are  heavily 
taxed ;  the  refractory  remain  unburdened.  What  will  you 
do  ?  Will  you  lay  new  and  heavier  taxes  by  Parliament  on 
the  disobedient  ?  Pray  consider  in  what  way  you  can  do  it. 
You  are  perfectly  convinced  that,  in  the  way  of  taxing,  you 
can  do  nothing  but  at  the  ports.  Now  suppose  it  is  Vir- 
ginia that  refuses  to  appear  at  your  auction,  while  Maryland 
and  North  Carolina  bid  handsomely  for  their  ransom,  and 
are  taxed  to  your  quota,  how  will  you  put  these  colonies  on 
a  par  ?     Will  you  tax  the  tobacco  of  Virginia  ?     If  you  do, 

^  composition.  Our  word  compounding  is  more  familiar. 
It  is  an  allusion  to  the  practice  of  agreeing  upon  a  sum  to  b« 
paid  by  an  insolvent  debtor  to  a  creditor. 


72  EDMUND  BURKE. 

you  give  its  death-wound  to  your  English  revenue  at  home, 
and  to  one  of  the  very  greatest  articles  of  your  own  foreign 
trade.  If  you  tax  the  import  of  that  rebellious  eolonyc, 
what  do  you  tax  but  your  own  manufactures,  or  the  goods 
of  some  other  obedient  and  already  well-taxed  colony  ? 
Who  has  said  one  word  on  this  labyrinth  of  detail,  which 
bewilders  you  more  and  more  as  you  enter  into  it  ?  Who 
has  presented,  who  can  present  you  with  a  clue  to  lead  you 
out  of  it  ?  I  think,  Sir,  it  is  impossible  that  you  should  not 
recollect  that  the  colony  bounds  are  so  implicated  in  one 
another,  —  you  know  it  by  your  other  experiments  in  the 
bill  for  prohibiting  the  New  England  fishery, — that  you 
can  lay  no  possible  restraints  on  almost  any  of  them  which 
may  not  be  presently  eluded,  if  you  do  not  confound  the 
innocent  with  the  guilty,  and  burthen  those  whom,  upon 
every  principle,  you  ought  to  exonerate.  He  must  be 
grossly  ignorant  of  America  who  thinks  that,  without  fall- 
ing into  this  confusion  of  all  rules  of  equity  and  policy, 
you  can  restrain  any  single  colony,  especially  Virginia  and 
Maryland,  the  central  and  most  important  of  them  all. 

134.  Let  it  also  be  considered  that,  either  in  the  present 
confusion  you  settle  a  permanent  contingent,  which  will 
and  must  be  trifling,  and  then  you  have  no  effectual  reve- 
nue ;  or  you  change  the  quota  at  every  exigency,  and  then 
on  every  new  repartition  you  will  have  a  new  quarrel. 

135.  Reflect,  besides,  that  when  you  have  fixed  a  quota 
for  every  colony,  you  have  not  provided  for  prompt  and 
punctual  payment.  Suppose  one,  two,  five,  ten  years' 
arrears.  You  cannot  issue  a  Treasury  Extent  ^  against  the 
failing  colony.  You  must  make  new  Boston  Port  Billsj 
new  restraining  laws,  new  acts  for  dragging  men  to  Eng- 
land for  trial.  You  must  send  out  new  fleets,  new  armies. 
All  is  to  begin  again.     From  this  day  forward  the  empire 

^  Treasury  Extent ;  a  severe  kind  of  execution  for  debts 
due  the  crown,  by  which  the  body,  land,  and  goods  of  the  debtoi 
wight  be  taken. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       73 

is  never  to  know  an  hour's  tranquillity.  An  intestine  fire 
will  be  kept  alive  in  the  bowels  of  the  colonies,  which  one 
time  or  other  must  consume  this  whole  empire.  I  allow 
indeed  that  the  empire  of  Germany  raises  her  revenue  and 
her  troops  by  quotas  and  contingents ;  but  the  revenue  of 
ohe  empire,  and  the  army  of  the  empire,  is  the  worst 
revenue  and  the  worst  army  in  the  world. 

136.  Instead  of  a  standing  revenue,  you  will  therefore 
have  a  perpetual  quarrel.  Indeed,  the  noble  lord  who  pro- 
posed this  project  of  a  ransom  by  auction  seems  himself  to 
be  of  that  opinion.  His  project  was  rather  designed  for 
breaking  the  union  of  the  colonies  than  for  establishing  a 
revenue.  He  confessed  he  apprehended  that  his  proposal 
would  not  be  to  their  taste.  I  say  this  scheme  of  disunion 
seems  to  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  project ;  for  I  will  not 
suspect  that  the  noble  lord  meant  nothing  but  merely  to 
delude  the  nation  by  an  airy  phantom  which  he  never 
intended  to  realize.  But  whatever  his  views  may  be,  as  1 
propose  the  peace  and  union  of  the  colonies  as  the  very 
foundation  of  my  plan,  it  cannot  accord  with  one  whose 
foundation  is  perpetual  discord. 

137.  Compare  the  two.  This  I  offer  to  give  you  is  plain 
and  simple.  The  other  full  of  perplexed  and  intricate 
mazes.  This  is  mild  ;  that  harsh.  This  is  found  by  expe- 
rience effectual  for  its  purposes  ;  the  other  is  a  new  project. 
This  is  universal ;  the  other  calculated  for  certain  colonies 
only.  This  is  immediate  in  its  conciliatory  operation ;  the 
other  remote,  contingent,  full  of  hazard.  Mine  is  what 
becomes  the  dignity  of  a  ruling  people  —  gratuitous,  uncon- 
ditional, and  not  held  out  as  a  matter  of  bargain  and  sale. 
I  have  done  my  duty  in  proposing  it  to  you.  I  have  indeed 
tired  you  by  a  long  discourse ;  but  this  is  the  misfortune  of 
those  to  whose  influence  nothing  will  be  conceded,  and  who 
must  win  every  inch  of  their  ground  by  argument.  You 
have  heard  me  with  goodness.  May  you  decide  with  wis- 
dom !     For  my  part,  I  feel  my  mind  greatly  disburthened 


T4  EDMUND  BURKE. 

by  v/hat  I  have  done  to-day.  I  have  been  the  less  fearfui 
of  trying  your  patience,  because  on  this  subject  I  mean  to 
Bpare  it  altogetlier  in  future.  I  have  this  comfort,  that  in 
every  stage  of  the  American  affairs  I  have  steadily  opposed 
the  measures  that  have  produced  the  confusion,  and  may 
bring  on  the  destruction,  of  this  empire.  I  now  go  so  far 
as  to  risk  a  proposal  of  my  own.  If  I  cannot  give  peace  to 
my  country,  I  give  it  to  my  conscience. 

138.  But  what,  says  the  financier,  is  peace  to  us  without 
money  ?  Your  plan  gives  us  no  revenue.  No !  But  it 
does  ;  for  it  secures  to  the  subject  the  power  of  Refusal, 
the  first  of  all  revenues.  Experience  is  a  cheat,  and  fact 
a  liar,  if  this  power  in  the  subject  of  proportioning  his 
grant,  or  of  not  granting  at  all,  has  not  been  found  the 
richest  mine  of  revenue  ever  discovered  by  the  skill  or  by 
the  fortune  of  man.  It  does  not  indeed  vote  you  152,750Z. 
lis.  2|c?.,  nor  any  other  paltry  limited  sum ;  but  it  gives 
the  strong  box  itself,  the  fund,  the  bank  —  from  whence 
only  revenues  can  arise  amongst  a  people  sensible  of  free- 
dom. Posita  luditur  area.  ^  Cannot  you,  in  England  — 
cannot  you,  at  this  time  of  day  —  cannot  you,  a  House  of 
Commons,  trust  to  the  principle  which  has  raised  so  mighty 
a  revenue,  and  accumulated  a  debt  of  near  140,000,000  in 
this  country  ?  Is  this  principle  to  be  true  in  England,  and 
false  everywhere  else  ?  Is  it  not  true  in  Ireland  ?  Has  it 
not  hitherto  been  true  in  the  colonies  ?  Why  should  you 
presume  that,  in  any  country,  a  body  duly  constituted  for 
any  function  will  neglect  to  perform  its  duty  and  abdicate 
its  trust  ?  Such  a  presumption  would  go  against  all  gov- 
ernments in  all  modes.  But,  in  truth,  this  dread  of  penury 
of  supply  from  a  free  assembly  has  no  foundation  in  nature ; 
for  first,  observe  that,  besides  the  desire  which  all  men  have 
naturally  of  supporting  the  honor  of  their  own  government, 
that  sense  of  dignity  and  that  security  to  property  which 

1  Posita  luditur  area  ;  a  quotation  from  Juvenal  (Satire  I. 
89-90)  :  "  The  chest  itself  is  staked." 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       75 

ever  attends  freedom  has  a  tendency  to  increase  the  stock 
of  the  free  community.  Most  may  be  taken  where  most  is 
accumulated.  And  what  is  the  soil  or  climate  where  expe- 
rience has  not  uniformly  proved  that  the  voluntary  flow  of 
heaped-up  plenty,  bursting  from  the  weight  of  its  own  rich 
luxuriance,  has  ever  run  with  a  more  copious  stream  of 
revenue  than  could  be  squeezed  from  the  dry  husks  of 
oppressed  indigence  by  the  straining  of  all  the  politic 
macliinery  in  the  world  ? 

139.  Next,  we  know  that  parties  must  ever  exist  in  a  free 
country.  We  know,  too,  that  the  emulations  of  such  par- 
ties —  their  contradictions,  their  reciprocal  necessities,  their 
hopes,  and  their  fears  —  must  send  them  all  in  their  turns 
to  him  that  holds  the  balance  of  the  State.  The  parties 
are  the  gamesters ;  but  Government  keeps  the  table,  and 
is  sure  to  be  the  winner  in  the  end.  When  this  game 
is  played,  I  really  think  it  is  more  to  be  feared  that  the 
people  will  be  exhausted,  than  that  government  will  not  be 
supplied ;  whereas,  whatever  is  got  by  acts  of  absolute 
power  ill  obeyed,  because  odious,  or  by  contracts  ill  kept, 
because  constrained,  will  be  narrow,  feeble,  uncertain,  and 

precarious. 

"  Ease  would  retract  ^ 
Vows  made  in  pain,  as  violent  and  void." 

140.  I,  for  one,  protest  against  compounding  our  de- 
mands. I  declare  against  compounding,  for  a  poor  limited 
sum,  the  immense,  ever-growing,  eternal  debt  which  is  due 
to  generous  government  from  protected  freedom.  And  so 
may  I  speed  in  the  great  object  I  propose  to  you,  as  1 
think  it  would  not  only  be  an  act  of  injustice,  but  would  be 
the  worst  economy  in  the  world,  to  compel  the  colonies  to  a 
sum  certain,  either  in  the  way  of  ransom  or  in  the  way  of 
compulsory  compact. 

141.  But  to  clear  up  my  ideas  on  this  subject :  a  revenue 

1  ease  would  retract.     Paradise  Lost,  IV.  96,  97. 

"  ease  would  recant 
Tows  made  in  pain,  as  violent  and  void." 


76  EDMUND  BURKE. 

from  America  transmitted  hither  —  do  not  delude  your, 
selves  —  you  never  can  receive  it ;  no,  not  a  shilling.  We 
have  experience  that  from  remote  countries  it  is  not  to  be 
expected.  If,  when  you  attempted  to  extract  revenue  from 
Bengal,  you  were  obliged  to  return  in  loan  what  you  had 
taken  in  imposition,  what  can  you  expect  from  North 
America  ?  For  certainly,  if  ever  there  was  a  country 
qualified  to  produce  wealth,  it  is  India ;  or  an  institution  fit 
for  the  transmission,  it  is  the  East  India  Company.  Amer- 
ica has  none  of  these  aptitudes.  If  America  gives  you 
taxable  objects  on  which  you  lay  your  duties  here,  and 
gives  you,  at  the  same  time,  a  surplus  by  a  foreign  sale  of 
her  commodities  to  pay  the  duties  on  these  objects  which 
you  tax  at  home,  she  has  performed  her  part  to  the  British 
revenue.  But  with  regard  to  her  own  internal  establish- 
ments, she  may,  I  doubt  not  she  will,  contribute  in  mod- 
eration. I  say  in  moderation,  for  she  ought  not  to  be 
permitted  to  exhaust  herself.  She  ought  to  be  reserved  to 
a  war,  the  weight  of  which,  with  the  enemies  that  we  are 
most  likely  to  have,  must  be  considerable  in  her  quarter  of 
the  globe.  There  she  may  serve  you,  and  serve  you  essen- 
tially. 

142.  For  that  service  —  for  all  service,  whether  of  reve- 
IV.  The  ^"®'  trade,  or  empire  —  my  trust  is  in  her  interest 
Peroration,  j^  ^he  British  Constitution.  My  hold  of  the  col- 
onies is  in  the  close  affection  which  grows  from  common 
names,  from  kindred  blood,  from  similar  privileges,  and 
equal  protection.  These  are  ties  which,  though  light  as  air, 
are  as  strong  as  links  of  iron.  Let  the  colonists  always 
keep  the  idea  of  their  civil  rights  associated  with  your 
government,  —  they  will  cling  and  grapple  to  you,  and  no 
force  under  heaven  will  be  of  power  to  tear  them  from 
their  allegiance.  But  let  it  be  once  understood  that  your 
government  may  be  one  thing,  and  their  privileges  another, 
that  these  two  things  may  exist  without  any  mutual  rela- 
tion, the  cement  is  gone  —  the  cohesion  is  loosened  —  and 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       77 

everything  hastens  to  decay  and  dissolution.  As  long*  as 
you  have  the  wisdom  to  keep  the  sovereign  authority  of  this 
country  as  the  sanctuary  of  liberty,  the  sacred  temple  con- 
secrated to  our  common  faith,  wherever  the  chosen  race 
and  sons  of  England  worship  freedom,  they  will  turn  their 
faces  towards  you.  The  more  they  multiply,  the  more 
friends  you  will  have  ;  the  more  ardently  they  love  liberty, 
the  more  perfect  will  be  their  obedience.  Slavery  they  can 
have  anywhere  —  it  is  a  weed  that  grows  in  every  soil. 
They  may  have  it  from  Spain ;  they  may  have  it  from 
Prussia.  But,  until  you  become  lost  to  all  feeling  of  your 
true  interest  and  your  natural  dignity,  freedom  they  can 
have  from  none  but  you.  This  is  the  commodity  of  price 
of  which  you  have  the  monopoly.  This  is  the  true  Act  of 
Navigation  which  binds  to  you  the  commerce  of  the  colo- 
nies, and  through  them  secures  to  you  the  wealth  of  the 
world.  Deny  them  this  participation  of  freedom,  and  you 
break  that  sole  bond  which  originally  made,  and  must  still 
preserve,  the  unity  of  the  empire.  Do  not  entertain  so 
weak  an  imagination  as  that  your  registers  and  your  bonds, 
your  affidavits  and  your  sufferances,  your  cockets^  and 
your  clearances,  are  what  form  the  great  securities  of  your 
commerce.  Do  not  dream  that  your  letters  of  office,  and 
your  instructions,  and  your  suspending  clauses,  are  the 
things  that  hold  together  the  great  contexture  of  the  myste- 
rious whole.  These  things  do  not  make  your  government. 
Dead  instruments,  passive  tools  as  they  are,  it  is  the  spirit 
of  the  English  communion  that  gives  all  their  life  and 
efficacy  to  them.  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  English  Constitu- 
tion w^hich,  infused  through  the  mighty  mass,  pervades, 
feeds,  unites,  invigorates,  vivifies  every  part  of  the  empire, 
even  down  to  the  minutest  member. 

*  Cockets  .  ,  .  clearances.  These  are  terms  relating  to 
the  routine  business  of  the  Custom  House.  A  cocket  is  a  docu- 
iTient  certifying  that  merchandise  has  been  duly  entered  ;  a 
clearance  is  a  permit  for  a  vessel  to  leave  port. 


78  EDMUND  BURKE. 

143.  Is  it  not  the  same  virtue  which  does  everything  for 
us  here  in  England  ?  Do  you  imagine,  then,  that  it  is  the 
Land  Tax  Act  which  raises  your  revenue  ?  that  it  is  the 
annual  vote  in  the  Committee  of  Supply  which  gives  you 
your  army  ?  or  that  it  is  the  Mutiny  Bill  which  inspires  it 
with  bravery  and  discipline  ?  No !  surely  no !  It  is  the 
love  of  the  people ;  it  is  their  attachment  to  their  govern- 
ment, from  the  sense  of  the  deep  stake  they  have  in  such  a 
glorious  institution,  which  gives  you  your  army  and  your 
navy,  and  infuses  into  both  that  liberal  ^  obedience  without 
which  your  army  would  be  a  base  rabble,  and  your  navy 
nothing  but  rotten  timber. 

144.  All  this,  I  know  well  enough,  will  sound  wild  and 
chimerical  to  the  profane  herd  of  those  vulgar  and  mechan- 
ical politicians  who  have  no  place  among  us;  a  sort  of 
people  who  think  that  nothing  exists  but  what  is  gross  and 
material,  and  who,  therefore,  far  from  being  qualified  to  be 
directors  of  the  great  movement  of  empire,  are  not  fit  to 
turn  a  wheel  in  the  machine.  But  to  men  truly  initiated 
and  rightly  taught,  these  ruling  and  master  principles 
which,  in  the  opinion  of  such  men  as  I  have  mentioned, 
have  no  substantial  existence,  are  in  truth  everything,  and 
all  in  all.  Magnanimity  in  politics  is  not  seldom  the  truest 
wisdom ;  and  a  great  empire  and  little  minds  go  ill  to- 
gether. If  we  are  conscious  of  our  station,  and  glow  with 
zeal  to  fill  our  places  as  becomes  our  station  and  ourselves, 
we  ought  to  auspicate  all  our  public  proceedings  on  Amer- 
ica with  the  old  warning  of  the  church,  Sursum  cor  da  !  ^ 
We  ought  to  elevate  our  minds  to  the  greatness  of  that 
trust  to  which  the  order  of  providence  has  called  us.  By 
adverting  to  the  dignity  of  this  high  calling  our  ancestors 
have  turned  a  savage  wilderness  into  a  glorious  empire,  and 
have  made  the  most  extensive  and  the  only  honorable  con- 

1  liberal ;  this  word  is  used  in  its  strict  etymological  sense  of 
free,  not  grudgingly  or  of  compulsion. 

2  Sursum  corda  ==  Lift  up  your  hearts. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES.       79 

quests  —  not  by  destroying,  but  by  promoting  the  wealth, 
the  number,  the  happiness,  of  the  human  race.  Let  us  get 
an  American  revenue  as  we  have  got  an  American  empire. 
English  privileges  have  made  it  all  that  it  is  ;  English  priv* 
ileges  alone  will  make  it  all  it  can  be. 

145.  In  full  confidence  of  this  unalterable  truth,  I  now, 
qiiod  felix  faustumque  slt,^  lay  the  first  stone  of  the  Temple 
of  Peace  ;  and  I  move  you  — 

146.  "  That  the  Colonies  and  Plantations  of  Great  Britain  in 

North  America,  consisting  of  fourteen  separate  gov- 
ernments, and  containing  two  millions  and  upwards 
of  free  inhabitants,  have  not  had  the  liberty  and 
privilege  of  electing  and  sending  any  Knights  and 
Burgesses,  or  others,  to  represent  them  in  the  High 
Court  of  Parliament." 

^  quod  felix  faustumque  sit  =:=  and  may  it  be  happy  and 
fortunate. 


2Cf)e  Ui'otteioe  JLitr racure  ^trits 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS 


BY 


THOMAS   CARLYLE 


EDITED 

WITH  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 
By  GEORGE   R.   NOTES 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

Boston :  4  Park  Street ;  New  York :  85  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  378-388  Wabash  Avenue 


Copyright,  1896, 
By  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  Ca 

All  rights  reserved. 


INTRODUCTION. 

Carlyle's  Essay  on  Burns  was  first  printed  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review  for  December,  1828.  Though  in  form 
a  review  of  the  Life  of  Robert  Burns,  by  John  Gibson 
Lockliart,  it  is  really,  like  many  of  the  articles  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review,  an  entirely  independent  work.  The 
present  art  of  book  reviewing  is  a  creation  of  our  own 
times.  The  English  magazines  of  the  eighteenth  century 
were  mere  publishers'  organs,  and  are  inferior  to  even 
second-rate  periodicals  of  our  own  day.  The  book  notices 
in  them  are  comparable  to  those  that  we  see  in  our  poorer 
daily  newspapers.  The  reviewers  were  usually  mere  liter- 
ary hacks,  and  were  content  to  give  a  summary  of  the  con- 
tents of  a  book,  and  then  pass  judgment  on  it  as  a  whole, 
meting  out  praise  or  blame  in  set,  formal  terras.  The 
foundation  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  in  1802,  by  Jeffrey, 
Sydney  Smith,  Brougham,  and  others,  marks  the  beginning 
of  a  new  era  in  English  periodical  literature.  The  new 
magazine  had  for  contributors  men  of  marked  learning 
and  originality,  leaders  in  the  thought  of  their  time,  who 
were  not  satisfied,  in  reviewing  a  book,  with  recording  the 
impression  that  any  sane  man  would  gather  from  a  casual 
reading,  but  took  the  title  of  the  book  as  the  text  for  a 
thoroughly  original  treatment  of  its  subject.  Succeeding 
periodicals,  as  the  Quarterly  and  Blackwood'' s,  however 
much  they  differed  from  the  Edinburgh  in  politics  and 
general  tendencies,  were  all  affected  by  its  methods.  So 
it  happens  that  many  book  reviews  in  the  English  maga- 
zines, by  men  like  Carlyle,  Macaulay,  and  Matthew  Arnold, 
have  become  permanent  additions  to  literature,  sometimes 
surpassing  in  interest  the  works  that  occasioned  them. 


IV  CARLYLE'S  ESSAY  ON  BURNS. 

In  the  present  case,  however,  the  book  reviewed  con« 
tinues  to  be  a  standard  authority.  Its  author,  John  Gibson 
Lockhart,  was  born  in  1794,  at  Cambusnethan,  about  twelve 
miles  southeast  of  Glasgow.  When  Blackwood's  Magazine 
was  founded,  in  1817,  Lockhart  became  one  of  its  chief 
contributors.  In  1820  he  married  the  eldest  daughter  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott.  In  the  years  following  his  marriage  he 
published  several  novels,  an  edition  of  Don  Quixote,  and 
his  translations  of  Ancient  Spanish  Ballads.  This  last 
work  has  never  been  superseded,  and  is  often  reprinted. 
In  1826  he  became  editor  of  the  Quarterly  Review,  and 
retained  the  position  until  the  year  before  his  death,  in 
1854.  His  Life  of  Robert  Bur7is  appeared  in  1828,  and  a 
Life  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte  in  the  next  year.  His  great- 
est work,  the  Life  of  Scott,  appeared  in  1836-38,  and  by 
general  consent  has  taken  in  English  biographical  literature 
a  place  second  only  to  that  of  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson. 

Carlyle  was  introduced  to  Lockhart  when  on  a  visit  to 
London,  in  1832.  In  his  Note  Book  at  that  time  he  calls 
Lockhart  "  a  precise,  brief,  active  person  of  considerable 
faculty,"  and  confesses  that  he  "  rather  liked  the  man."  ^ 
A  month  later,  in  a  letter  to  his  brother,  he  calls  him  "  not 
without  force,  but  barren  and  unfruitful."  ^  Seven  years 
after  this,  when  Carlyle  was  settled  in  London,  he  formed 
the  project  of  writing  an  article  on  the  working-classes  for 
the  Quarterly  ;  with  this  in  mind  he  called  upon  Lockhart, 
and,  he  says,  "  found  him  a  person  of  sense,  good  breeding, 
even  kindness."  ^  Ever  after  this,  though  the  two  men  were 
never  intimate  friends,  they  had  warm  affection  and  esteem 
for  each  other.  Lockhart  feared  to  accept  Carlyle's  article 
because  of  its  radical  opinions,  and  it  was  published  sepa- 
rately, under  the  title  of  Chartism.    One  more  link  between 

1  Froude :  Thomas  Carlyle,  a  History  of  the  First  Forty  Years  oj 
lis  Life,  ii.  188. 

2  Ibid.,  ii.  212. 

^  Quoted  in  Froude:  Thomas  Carlyle,  a  History  of  his  Life  in 
Jjondon,  i.  140,  from  a  letter  of  Carlyle's  to  his  brother. 


INTRODUCTION.  V 

the  men  is  Carlyle's  review  —  one  of  his  least  satisfac- 
tory essays  —  of  the  Life  of  Scott,  published  in  1838,  in 
the  London  and  Westminster  Review.  And  Carlyle's  own 
judgment  of  Lockhart  widens  our  knowledge  of  the  char 
acter  of  both  men. 

"  A  hard,  proud,  bat  thoroughly  honest,  singularly  intel- 
ligent, and  also  affectionate  man,  wliom  in  the  distance  I 
esteemed  more  than  perhaps  he  ever  knew.  Seldopi  did  I 
speak  to  him  ;  but  hardly  ever  without  learning  and  gaining 
something."  ^ 

Thomas  Carlyle  was  born  December  4,  1795,  at  Annan- 
dale,  in  Dumfriesshire,  in  southeast  Scotland.  His  life 
offers  many  resemblances,  though  perhaps  more  contrasts, 
to  that  of  Burns.  Like  Burns,  he  came  from  the  strong, 
rough  stock  of  the  Scotch  peasantry.  Of  his  father,  James 
Carlyle,  a  man  like  Burns's  father  in  his  strength  of  char- 
acter and  deeply  religious  temperament,  but  unlike  him 
in  his  complete  ignorance  of  all  books  except  the  Bible, 
Carlyle  has  himself  left  us  a  grand  portrait  in  the  Remi- 
niscences. When  ten  years  old,  Carlyle  was  sent  to  the 
Annan  grammar  school.  Of  his  life  there  we  may  judge 
from  the  veiled  account  in  Sartor  Resartus :  — 

"  My  Teachers  were  hide-bound  Pedants,  without  know- 
ledge of  man's  nature,  or  of  boy's ;  or  of  aught  save  their 
lexicons  and  quarterly  account-books.  Innumerable  dead 
Vocables  (no  dead  Language,  for  they  themselves  knew 
no  Language)  they  crammed  into  us,  and  called  it  foster- 
ing the  growth  of  mind.  .  .  .  The  Professors  knew  syntax 
enough ;  and  of  the  human  soul  thus  much :  that  it  had  a 
faculty  called  Memory,  and  could  be  acted-on  through  the 
muscular  integument  by  the  appliance  of  birch-rods."  ^ 

James  Carlyle  recognized  his  son's  ability,  and  resolved 

^  See  note  by  Carlyle  in  Letters  and  Memorials  of  Jam  Welsh  Car' 
lyle,  ed.  Fronde,  i.  107. 
2  Sartor  Besartus,  II.  iiL 


VI  CARLYLE'S  ESSAY  ON  BUENS. 

that  he  should  be  an  educated  man.  Yet  Carlyle  can 
hardly  be  said  to  have  been  "  sent "  to  the  University,  for 
he  walked  the  distance  of  seventy  miles  over  rough  coun- 
try to  Edinburgh.  There  he  worked  industriously  in  the 
library,  and  laid  the  foundations  for  his  wonderful  know- 
ledge of  books.     He  tells  us  later  :  — 

"  What  I  have  found  the  University  did  for  me,  was  that 
it  taught  me  to  read  in  various  languages  and  various  sci- 
ences, so  that  I  could  go  into  the  books  that  treated  of  these 
things,  and  try  anything  I  wanted  to  make  myself  master 
of  gradually,  as  I  found  it  suit  me."  ^ 

Carlyle  had  been  intended  for  the  ministry,  but  money 
was  lacking,  and  he  took  up  school  teaching  as  a  temporary 
occupation.  In  1818,  having  saved  ninety  pounds,  he  re- 
turned to  Edinburgh  for  study.  Meanwhile,  the  ministry 
had  become  closed  to  him,  for  reading  and  thought  had 
undermined  his  belief  in  the  creed  of  the  Scotch  Kirk. 
But  Carlyle's  reaction  from  his  ancestral  beliefs  was  occa- 
sioned by  different  circumstances  from  that  of  Burns. 
Carlyle,  by  deep  study  and  meditation,  was  stirred  from 
the  dogmas  of  the  Scotch  Kirk,  but  adhered  strictly  to  its 
stern,  severe  code  of  morals.  Burns,  who  had  a  lighter, 
more  facile  nature,  became  disgusted  with  the  hypocrisy  of 
those  high  in  church  authority,  and  was  attracted  by  the 
more  winning  characters  of  the  leaders  of  the  progressive 
party.  His  passions  had  already  weakened  his  morals  ; 
and  though  he  still  professed  the  highest  respect  for  religion 
in  the  abstract,  he  was  led  on  from  distrust  of  orthodox 
Calvinism  to  what  often  seems  general  skepticism  and  in- 
difference on  religious  matters. 

After  an  experiment  in  legal  study,  Carlyle  finally  settled 
on  his  trade  as  a  "  writer  of  books."  From  1818  to  1822 
he  lived  in  Edinburgh,  and  did  hack  literary  work,  largely 
articles  for  the  Edinburgh  Encyclopcedia.      In  1822   ho 

1  Address  delivered  to  the  Students  of  Edinburgh  University  —  April 
2,  1866. 


INTRODUCTION.  TO. 

became  tutor  in  a  private  family,  with  whom  he  travelled, 
not  returning  to  Edinburgh  until  1825.  During  these  years 
of  indecision  as  to  what  should  be  his  life  pursuit  he  had 
been  occupied  with  German  literature,  and  had  published 
his  translation  of  Wilhelm  Meister  and  his  Life  of  Schil' 
ler.  For  these  works  he  received  grateful  acknowledg- 
ment from  Goethe,  and  by  them  established  a  reputation  as 
a  writer.  In  1827  he  met  Jeffrey,  and  made  a  contract 
with  him  to  write  for  the  Edinburgh  Revieiv. 

Meanwhile,  in  1826,  Carlyle  had  married  Jane  Baillie 
Welsh.  Two  years  later,  through  the  failure  of  some  liter- 
ary plans,  he  decided  to  remove,  for  the  sake  of  economy,  to 
his  wife's  farm  of  Craigenputtock,  in  southwest  Dumfries- 
shire, in  the  wild  moorland  country,  fifteen  miles  from  any 
town.  There  he  resolved,  in  spite  of  poverty,  to  publish  no 
work  that  did  not  satisfy  his  ideal.  Carlyle's  impressions 
of  his  hermit  life  vary  with  his  changing  moods,  —  now  he 
praises  his  home  as  a  rural  paradise ;  again  he  writes  in  his 
diary,  "  Finished  a  paper  on  Burns  September  16,  1828,  at 
this  Devil's  Den,  Craigenputtock."  ^ 

This  last  phrase  shows  us  that  the  Essay  on  Burns  was 
one  of  the  first  products  of  Carlyle's  self-imposed  exile. 
Of  all  his  essays,  this  is  on  the  topic  nearest  to  the  author's 
life.  Carlyle  was  drawn  to  his  subject  by  every  bond  of 
race,  language,  and  association.  His  birthplace,  Annandale, 
is  only  ten  miles  from  Dumfries,  Burns's  last  home.  He 
had  talked  with  many  who  had  known  Burns  in  life,  among 
them  Gilbert  Burns,  the  poet's  brother.  Though  an  esti- 
mate of  the  merits  of  the  essay  will  be  more  appropriate 
later,  some  circumstances  connected  with  its  publication 
must  here  be  noted,  for  the  light  which  they  throw  on  Car- 
lyle's character.  The  account  of  them  is  quoted,  with  some 
small  changes,  from  Froude. 

Jeffrey  "  found  the  article  long  and  diffuse,  though  he 

^  Froude  :  Thomas  Carlyle^  a  History  of  the  First  Forty  Years  q/ 
lis  Life,  ii.  26. 


viii  CARLYLE'S  ESSAY  ON  BURNS. 

did  not  deny  that  '  it  contained  much  beauty  and  felicity  of 
diction/  He  insisted  that  it  must  be  cut  down,"  and  received 
permission  from  Carlyle  to  make  some  alterations.^  *'  When 
the  proof-sheets  came,  Carlyle  found  '  the  first  part  cut  all 
into  shreds,  —  the  body  of  a  quadruped  with  the  head  of  a 
bird,  a  man  shortened  by  cutting  out  the  thighs  and  fixing 
the  knee-caps  on  the  hips.'  ^  He  refused  to  let  it  appear 
'  in  such  a  horrid  shape.'  He  replaced  the  most  important 
passages,  and  returned  the  sheets  with  an  intimation  that 
the  paper  might  be  cancelled,  but  should  not  be  mutilated. 
Few  editors  would  have  been  so  forbearing  as  Jeffrey  when 
so  audaciously  defied.  He  complained,  but  he  acquiesced. 
He  admitted  that  the  article  would  do  the  Review  credit, 
though  it  would  be  called  tedious  and  sprawling  by  people 
of  weight  whose  mouths  he  could  have  stopped.  He  had 
wished  to  be  of  use  to  Carlyle  by  keeping  out  of  sight  in 
the  Review  his  mannerism  and  affectation ;  but  if  Carlyle 
persisted  he  might  have  his  way. 

"  Carlyle  was  touched ;  such  kindness  was  more  than  he 
had  looked  for.  The  proud  self-assertion  was  followed  by 
humility  and  almost  penitence,  and  the  gentle  tone  in  which 
he  wrote  conquered  Jeffrey  in  turn.  Jeffrey  said  that  he 
admired  and  approved  of  Carlyle 's  letter  to  him  in  all 
respects.  *  The  candour  and  sweet  blood  '  which  was  shown 
in  it  deserved  the  highest  praise.  *  Your  virtues  are  youl* 
own,'  said  Jeffrey,  '  and  you  shall  have  anything  you  like.'  "  • 

During  Carlyle's  residence  at  Craigenputtock,  which 
lasted,  with  slight  interruption,  for  six  years,  were  produced 
most  of  the  miscellaneous  essays,  and  his  first  great  original 
work,  Sartor  Hesartus.  This  is  the  formative  period  of  his 
literary  life,  from   which   he    came    forth,    to   quote    Mr. 

1  Letters  of  Thomas  Carlyle,  1826-1836,  p.  123. 

2  Quoted  from  a  letter  from  Carlyle  to  his  brother,  October  10, 1828. 
There  is  here  a  reminiscence  of  the  opening  lines  of  Horace's  Ars 
Poetica. 

^  Froude :  Thomas  Carlyle,  a  History  of  the  First  Forty  Years  oj 
its  Life,  ii.  31-35. 


INTRODUCTION.  UC 

Stephen,  "  a  master  of  his  craft."  In  1834  he  moved  to 
London,  where  he  resided  until  his  death,  in  1881.  To 
this  later  period  belong  his  greatest  works,  on  which  his 
fame  depends  :  Heroes  and  Hero  -  Worship,  The  French 
Revolution,  CromwelVs  Letters  and  Speeches,  and  The 
History  of  Frederick  the  Great.  But  the  earlier  works 
have  the  same  tonic  quality  as  the  later,  and  are  free  from 
many  of  their  defects.  As  a  teacher,  especially  if  we  take 
an  American  point  of  view,  Carlyle  grows  less  trustworthy 
with  advancing  years.  His  cynicism  becomes  more  bitter, 
his  hero-worship  leads  him  to  sympathize  with  autocracy, 
while  his  contempt  for  the  stupidity  of  the  masses  leads  him 
to  distrust  all  popular  government.  In  Lowell's  words, 
quoting  Carlyle's  contemptuous  phrase,  "  he  saw  '  only  the 
burning  of  a  dirty  chimney '  in  the  war  which  a  great  people 
was  waging  under  his  very  eyes  for  the  idea  of  nationality 
and  orderly  magistrature." 

In  the  Essay  on  Burns,  then,  we  have  a  work  of  Oar- 
lyle's  early  prime.  We  might  infer  this  from  the  style 
alone,  which  shows  a  transition  from  his  early  clearness  and 
simplicity  to  the  "piebald,  entangled,  hyper-metaphorical 
style  of  writing "  characteristic  of  his  later  works,  and 
always  associated  with  his  name. 

In  the  Essay  on  Burns  it  is  not  the  author's  intention  to 
give  a  connected  sketch  of  Burns's  life,^  or  to  pass  a  cool, 
critical  judgment  on  his  poetry  as  a  whole.  Carlyle  has 
himself,  on  page  6  of  this  essay,  given  us  his  idea  of  the 
true  purpose  of  biography.  The  following  words  from  his 
second  essay  on  Richter  make  his  meaning  still  clearer :  — 

"  If  the  acted  life  of  a  pius  Vates  is  so  high  a  matter, 
the  written  life,  which,  if  properly  written,  would  be  a 
translation  and  interpretation  thereof,  must  also  have  great 
value.  It  has  been  said  that  no  Poet  is  equal  to  his  Poem, 
which  saying  is  partially  true ;    but  in  a  deeper  sense,  it 

^  For  this  reason,  a  brief  sketch  of  the  poet's  life  is  given  the  reader 
after  this  Introduction.    See  pp.  xiv.-xvii 


X  CAHLYLE'S  ESSAY  ON  BURNS. 

may  also  be  asserted,  and  with  still  greater  truth,  that  no 
Poem  is  equal  to  its  Poet.  Now,  it  is  Biography  which 
lirst  gives  us  both  Poet  and  Poem ;  by  the  significance  of 
the  one,  elucidating  and  completing  that  of  the  other.  That 
ideal  outline  of  himself,  which  a  man  unconsciously  shadows 
forth  in  his  writings,  and  which,  rightly  deciphered,  will  be 
truer  than  any  other  representation  of  him,  it  is  the  task  of 
the  Biographer  to  fill  up  into  an  actual  coherent  figure,  and 
bring  home  to  our  experience,  or  at  least  clear,  undoubting 
admiration,  thereby  to  instruct  and  edify  us  in  many  ways. 
Conducted  on  such  principles,  the  Biography  of  great  men, 
especially  of  great  poets,  that  is,  of  men  in  the  highest 
degree  noble  minded  and  wise,  might  become  one  of  the 
most  dignified  and  valuable  species  of  composition.  As 
matters  stand,  indeed,  there  are  few  Biographies  that  ac- 
complish anything  of  this  kind ;  the  most  are  mere  Indexes 
of  a  Biography,  which  each  reader  is  to  write  out  for  him- 
self, as  he  peruses  them ;  not  the  living  body,  but  the  dry 
bones  of  a  body,  which  should  have  been  alive.  To  expect 
any  such  Promethean  virtue  in  a  common  Life-writer  were 
unreasonable  enough.  How  shall  that  unhappy  Biographic 
brotherhood,  instead  of  writing  like  Index-makers  and  Gov- 
ernment-clerks, suddenly  become  enkindled  with  some  sparks 
of  intellect,  or  even  of  genial  fire ;  and  not  only  collecting 
dates  and  facts,  but  making  use  of  them,  look  beyond  the 
surface  and  economical  form  of  a  man's  life,  into  its  sub- 
stance and  spirit  ?  " 

In  pursuit  of  this  great  aim,  Carlyle  has  to  adapt  his 
method  to  his  subject.  In  writing  of  Richter,  a  man  un- 
known to  the  British  public  of  his  time,  he  has  to  give  us 
himself  the  "  dry  bones  "  of  fact,  before  he  can  give  the 
"  living  body."  But  in  the  case  of  Burns,  as  he  can  assume 
that  his  readers  are  familiar  with  Burns's  chief  poems,  and 
know  the  main  events  of  his  life,  he  brushes  aside  all  de- 
tail, and  treats  at  once  the  inner  meaning  and  value  of  the 
poet's  life  and  work.    To  appreciate  Carlyle's  essay,  we  must 


INTRODUCTION.  xi 

fulfil  his  expectation  of  us,  and  know  Burns  at  first  hand 
before  we  start  to  read  about  him. 

We  must  now  ask  how  far  Carlyle  corresponds  to  his  own 
ideal  biographer.  No  one  can  read  this  essay  without  ad- 
mitting that  we  have  in  it  a  powerful  and  sympathetic  con- 
ception of  Burns.  To  decide  whether  this  conception  is 
just  and  impartial  we  must  take  into  account  the  writer's 
general  temperament  and  leading  ideas. 

Carlyle  is  a  hero-worshipper  in  all  his  work,  as  a  quota- 
tion from  Sartor  Resartus  will  best  explain :  — 

"  Meanwhile,  observe  with  joy,  so  cunningly  has  Nature 
ordered  it,  that  whatsoever  man  ought  to  obey,  he  cannot  but 
obey.  Before  no  faintest  revelation  of  the  Godlike  did  he 
ever  stand  irreverent ;  least  of  all,  when  the  Godlike  showed 
itself  revealed  in  his  fellow-man.  Thus  there  is  a  true 
religious  Loyalty  forever  rooted  in  his  heart;  nay  in  all 
ages,  even  in  ours,  it  manifests  itself  as  a  more  or  less 
orthodox  Hero-worship.  In  which  fact,  that  Hero-worship 
exists,  has  existed,  and  will  forever  exist,  universally  among 
Mankind,  mayest  thou  discern  the  corner-stone  of  living- 
rock,  whereon  all  Politics  for  the  remotest  time  may  stand 
secure. 

"  Hast  thou  forgotten  Paris  and  Voltaire  ?  How  the 
aged,  withered  man,  though  but  a  skeptic,  mocker,  and  mil- 
linery Court-poet,  yet  because  even  he  seemed  the  Wisest, 
Best,  could  drag  mankind  at  his  chariot  -  wheels,  so  that 
princes  coveted  a  smile  from  him,  and  the  loveliest  of 
France  would  have  laid  their  hair  beneath  his  feet.  All 
Paris  was  one  vast  Temple  of  Hero-worship ;  though  their 
Divinity,  moreover,  was  of  feature  too  apish."  ^ 

As  Carlyle  is  fallible,  like  other  men,  the  practical  effect 
of  his  doctrine  is  that  he  exalts  those  whom  he  likes,  and 
throws  contempt  on  those  whom  he  dislikes.  Since  he  is 
attracted  by  Burns's  noble  qualities,  above  all  by  his  sin- 
cerity, he  forms  a  grand  ideal  conception  of  him.  Indeed, 
1  Sartor  Resartus,  III.  vii. 


xii  CARLYLE'S  ESSAY  ON  BURNS, 

in  his  Heroes  and  Hero-  Worship,  written  twelve  years  later, 
he  boldly  pronounces  Burns  "  the  most  gifted  British  soul 
we  had  in  all  that  century  of  his."  The  lecture  upon  "  the 
hero  as  man  of  letters  "  should  be  studied  carefully  by  all 
who  wish  to  understand  Carlyle's  attitude  towards  the  great 
writers  of  the  world,  and  towards  Burns  as  one  of  them. 
It  would,  however,  be  of  small  use  to  read,  as  a  sort  of 
postscript  to  this  essay,  the  half-dozen  pages  which  Carlyle 
there  devotes  especially  to  Burns.  He  there  repeats  many 
of  the  thoughts  of  this  essay,  —  when  a  writer  has  once 
clearly  and  fully  spoken  his  mind  of  a  man  he  cannot  well 
treat  of  him  again  without  repetition.  The  value  of  the 
lecture  on  "  the  hero  as  man  of  letters  "  is,  that  it  gives  us 
in  brief  form  general  ideas,  of  which  the  Essay  on  Burns 
is  a  particular  application. 

In  consequence  of  his  conception  of  Burns  as  a  hero, 
Carlyle  casts  aside,  as  of  slight  importance  in  the  general 
estimate,  evidence  that  opposes  his  own  view,  or  even  en- 
tirely refuses  to  believe  it.  Thus  he  dwells  on  Burns's 
finest  poems,  and  pays  little  heed  to  his  affected  English, 
verse  and  stilted  prose.  Yet  they,  V)0,  are  of  Burns's 
writing,  and  demand  full  consideration,  if  we  are  to  under- 
stand the  whole  man.  Again,  he  will  not  credit  an  anecdote 
for  which  there  is  fairly  good  evidence,  because  it  shows  in 
Burns  a  foolish  vanity  that  seems  to  him  impossible.  So, 
at  the  best,  our  essay  gives  only  a  partial  view  of  Burns. 
Those  who  wish  to  learn  more  of  the  seamy  side  of  the 
poet's  character  will  do  weU  to  read  an  essay  by  as  loyal  a 
son  of  Scotland,  and  as  kindly  and  sympathetic  a  writer,  as 
Carlyle  himself,  —  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.^ 

Much  more  might  be  said  in  dispraise  of  Carlyle's  work, 
and  yet  its  essential  greatness  would  remain  unaffected. 
After  the  lapse  of  nearly  seventy  years,  this  essay  is  still 
by  far  our  best  portrait  of  Burns.  All  succeeding  critics 
have  had  to  take  Carlyle  into  account.  They  may  differ 
^  In  Familiar  Studies  of  Men  and  Books. 


INTRODUCTION.  xiu 

widely  from  his  conclusions,  but  they  cannot  fail  to  recognize 
his  transcendent  merits.  Though  the  judgments  of  Carlyle 
on  Burns  have,  in  the  main,  stood  well  the  test  of  time,  yet 
in  this,  as  in  all  his  writings,  his  excellence  lies  less  in  liis 
own  opinions  than  in  his  power  to  make  others  tliink  for 
themselves.  Carlyle  has  little  of  the  finish,  proportion,  dis- 
crimination, that  we  find  in  Matthew  Arnold  or  Sainte- 
Beuve.  But  for  the  ordinary  reader  he  is  far  more  useful 
than  many  a  writer  who  comes  nearer  the  absolute  truth. 
He  touches  our  hearts  and  arouses  our  sympathies.  Most 
readers  of  a  critic  ask,  not :  "  After  reading  this  essay  can 
I  distinguish  more  accurately  between  the  good  and  bad 
art  in  my  author,  and  judge  better  of  their  comparative 
importance?"  but:  "  Does  this  critic  make  me  more  able 
to  understand  the  best  that  is  in  my  poet,  so  that  I  share 
more  deeply  in  his  highest  life  and  thought  ? "  Let  us 
then,  with  due  reverence,  approach  the  thoughts  of  one  of 
the  greatest  thinkers  of  Scotland  upon  the  greatest  of  her 
poets. 


k   SKETCH  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Robert  Burns  was  born  on  January  25, 1759,  in  a  clay- 
built  cottage,  at  AUoway  in  Ayrshire,  in  southwest  Scotland. 
Except  for  the  personal  character  of  his  father,  his  lot  was 
that  of  any  poor  peasant  lad.  But  the  elder  Burns  had  a 
natural  love  of  learning,  attended  carefully  to  his  sons'  edu- 
cation himself,  and,  further,  gave  them  as  good  schooling 
as  it  lay  in  his  power  to  do.  The  teacher  of  Robert  Burns 
and  liis  younger  brother  Gilbert  was  John  Murdoch,  a 
young  man  of  uncommon  merit,  who  interested  himself  in 
the  boys,  and  lent  them  various  books.  Robert  grew  thor- 
oughly familiar  with  his  small  library,  learned  French  fairly 
well,  and  began  Latin.  He  was  particularly  fascinated  by 
a  book  of  English  songs,  and  carried  it  with  him  into  the 
fields.  He  early  became  noted  as  the  best  converser  and 
the  best  letter  writer  in  the  parish.  When  Burns  was  still 
a  child  his  father  had  removed  to  another  farm,  at  Mount 
Oliphant;  later,  when  Burns  was  eighteen,  to  Lochlea,  in 
the  parish  of  Tarbolton.  The  family  affairs  were  never 
long  prosperous  ;  and  the  distress  endured  at  Mount  Oli- 
phant from  a  tyrannical  factor,  or  landlord's  agent,  is  com- 
memorated in  The  Twa  Dogs,  just  as  the  happy  home  life 
is  reproduced  in  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  Through 
all  his  youth  Burns  was  a  laborer  for  his  father ;  and  his 
first  song,  Handsome  Nell,  written  when  he  was  only  fifteen, 
is  in  honor  of  a  chance  partner  in  the  harvest  field. 

In  1782,  when  he  was  twenty-three  years  old,  Burns  en- 
gaged in  business  at  the  town  of  Irvine,  but  was  reduced  to 
poverty  by  the  burning  of  his  shop,  and  returned  to  Lochlea. 
The  short  residence  at  the  thriving  seaport  affected  for  the 


SKETCH  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  xv 

worse  his  habits  of  life  and  thought.  Until  then  Burns 
had  led  an  ordinarily  correct  life ;  but  at  Irvine  he  learned 
to  drink,  and  to  think  lightly  of  infidelity  to  women.  The 
Poefs  Welcome  to  his  Illegitimate  Child  bears  sad  witness 
to  this  alteration  in  his  character. 

In  1784,  soon  after  Burns's  return  home,  his  father  died, 
leaving  his  affairs  in  utter  ruin.  Three  months  before  his 
death  Robert  and  Gilbert  had  taken  the  farm  of  Mossgiel, 
in  the  neighboring  parish  of  Mauchline,  and  thither  the 
whole  family  now  removed.  The  years  1785  and  1786  are 
Burns's  great  period  of  poetical  production  ;  within  them 
fall  most  of  the  pieces,  exclusive  of  Tarn  O'Shanter  and  of 
his  songs,  by  which  he  is  now  best  known.  At  this  time 
the  theological  controversy  between  the  two  parties  in  the 
Scotch  Kirk  occupied  the  attention  of  every  one.  Burns 
was  attracted  by  the  personal  character  of  the  leaders  of 
the  New  Light,  or  progressive,  party ;  and  aided  them  in 
their  warfare  upon  the  Old  Light  divines  by  many  stinging 
satires,  notably  The  Holy  Fair,  The  Twa  Herds,  and  Holy 
Willie's  Prayer.  Readers  to-day  have  come  to  have  a  new 
interest  in  the  Old  Lights,  or  Auld  Lichts,  as  the  Scotch 
term  is,  through  J.  M.  Barrie's  tales  and  sketches. 

In  1785  Burns  met  and  fell  in  love  with  Jean  Armour, 
and  the  next  year  twin  children  were  born  to  them.  Burns, 
in  order  to  save  the  girl  from  disgrace,  had  given  her  a 
written  acknowledgment  of  marriage  ;  but  her  father,  who 
had  a  poor  opinion  of  the  poet's  general  character,  had 
forced  her  to  destroy  this.  Burns,  finding  himself  with- 
out money  or  position  in  society,  resolved  to  emigrate  to 
Jamaica,  and  published  a  thin  volume  of  his  poems  in  order 
to  raise  money  for  the  passage.  Tlie  success  of  the  book  was 
great  and  immediate,  and  altered  the  whole  course  of  Burns's 
life.  Dugald  Stewart,  the  philosopher,  entertained  him  at 
his  house ;  Henry  MacKenzie,  the  novelist,  gave  him  a  flat- 
tering review ;  and,  finally,  an  enthusiastic  letter  from  Dr. 
Blacklock,  one  of  the  most  celebrated    Edinburgh   critics. 


xvi  CARLYLE'S  ESSAY  ON  BURNS. 

made  him  decide  to  give  up  his  plan  of  flight  from  his  native 
country,  and  to  try  his  fortune  at  the  Scotch  capital.  The 
volume  of  poems  was  also  the  means  of  his  acquaintance 
with  the  excellent  Mrs.  Dunlop,  with  whom  he  corresponded 
until  the  end  of  his  life. 

In  November,  1786,  Burns  went  to  Edinburgh,  and  was 
the  "  lion  "  of  the  following  winter.  A  new  edition  of  his 
poems  received  three  thousand  subscribers,  and  brought  him 
in  about  £500.  Of  this  he  lent  £180  to  his  brother  Gilbert, 
to  help  in  the  management  of  Mossgiel,  —  the  loan  was 
finally  repaid  some  thirty  years  later  to  the  poet's  family. 
During  the  following  year  he  made  two  trips  through  Scot- 
land, partly  to  collect  songs,  and  began  to  contribute  to 
Johnson's  Scofs  Musical  Museum  and  Thomson's  Collec- 
tion of  Scottish  Airs.  The  poet  applied  for,  and  obtained, 
a  commission  in  the  Excise,  the  only  worldly  advantage, 
except  the  profits  of  his  poems,  that  he  derived  from  his 
triumphal  Edinburgh  season.  Reserving  his  commission 
as  a  last  resort,  Burns  rented  a  farm  at  Ellisland,  near 
Dumfries,  where  he  settled  in  the  summer  of  1788.  He 
had  renewed  his  intimacy  with  Jean  Armour,  and,  when 
she  became  once  more  exposed  to  the  anger  of  her  father, 
made  her  all  the  reparation  in  his  power,  by  marriage.  The 
farm  was  not  a  success,  and  Burns  tried  to  carry,  on  the 
Excise  business  along  with  it.  When  this  division  of  labor 
also  proved  unsatisfactory,  he  abandoned  Ellisland,  and,  in 
November,  1792,  moved  to  Dumfries. 

At  Dumfries  Burns  was  advanced  to  an  Excise  division, 
with  a  salary  of  seventy  pounds,  and  retained  the  position 
until  his  death.  His  hopes  of  further  promotion  were  cut 
off  by  his  ill-timed  expressions  of  sympathy  with  the  Amer- 
ican Revolution,  and  with  the  republican  party  in  France. 
He  attended  well  to  the  duties  of  his  office,  but  occasional 
drunkenness  and  other  misconduct  brought  on  him  the  ill 
favor  of  the  "  Dumfries  aristocracy."  The  boon  companions 
with  whom  he  mingled,  and  the  curious  tourists  attracted  by 


SKETCH  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  xvii 

his  fame,  were  in  no  small  measure  the  cause  of  his  poop 
success.     On  January  2, 1793,  he  writes  to  Mrs.  Dunlop :  — 

"  Occasionally  hard  drinking  is  the  devil  to  me.  Against 
this  I  have  again  and  again  bent  my  resolution,  and  have 
greatly  succeeded.  Taverns  I  have  totally  abandoned  :  it 
is  the  private  parties  in  the  family  way,  among  the  hard- 
drinking  gentlemen  of  this  country,  that  do  me  the  mis- 
<5hief." 

The  poet's  excesses  did  not  keep  him  from  being  an  affec- 
tionate father,  and  attending  carefully  to  his  children's  edu- 
cation.    He  died  on  July  21,  1796. 

Burns's  life  since  leaving  Edinburgh  had,  on  the  whole, 
been  one  of  decline.  With  the  exception  of  his  songs, 
which  he  never  ceased  to  contribute  to  Thomson's  Collection 
of  Scottish  Airs,  and  of  Tarn  0' Shanter,  written  at  Ellis- 
land,  he  had  produced  no  important  poem  since  that  time. 
But  this  sketch  of  Burns's  life  must  not  attempt  an  esti- 
mate of  his  character  as  poet  or  man.  Its  only  object  is  to 
furnish  for  ready  reference  a  few  of  the  facts  necessary  foi- 
understanding  Carlyle's  work. 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE. 

Every  author  should  be  studied,  as  far  as  possible,  from  his 
own  writings.  Carlyle's  voluminous  correspondence  furnishes 
rich  materials  for  the  history  of  his  life  and  thought.  The  best 
editions  of  his  letters  are  those  edited  by  Professor  Charles  Eliot 
Norton :  Early  Letters  of  Thomas  Carlyle  (1814-1826),  Letters 
of  Thomas  Carlyle  (1826-1836),  Correspondence  of  Thomas  Car- 
lyle and  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  These  may  be  supplemented 
by  Fronde's  edition  of  the  Letters  and  Memorials  of  Jane  Welsh 
Carlyle.  Next  to  these  first-hand  documents,  Fronde's  Thomas 
Carlyle,  in  spite  of  its  inaccuracy  and  its  prejudiced  point  of 
view,  will  remain  the  great  storehouse  of  information  for  stu- 
dents of  the  subject.  There  are  good  short  lives  of  Carlyle  by 
John  Nichol  (^English  Men  of  Letters  Series)  and  Richard  Garnett 
(^GreatWriters  Series).  The  former  deals  more  fully  in  criticism 
on  his  literary  work.  There  are  excellent  critical  appreciations 
of  Carlyle  by  James  Russell  Lowell,  Augustine  Birrell  (in  Obiter 
Dicta),  and  Matthew  Arnold  (in  Essay  on  Emerson). 

The  best  way  to  study  Burns  is  to  learn  the  outline  of  the» 
external  events  of  his  life  from,  any  short  sketch,  and  then  to 
read  his  poems  and  letters  in  chronological  order.  Besides  the 
life  by  Lockhart,  there  are  good  accounts  of  him  by  Principal 
Shairp  (^English  Men  of  Letters  Series)  and  John  Stuart  Blackie 
(Great  Writers  Series).  Carlyle  mentions  by  name  Currie  and 
Walker  among  the  biographers  of  Burns  previous  to  Lockhart. 
Dr.  James  Currie  (1756-1805),  a  famous  Scotch  physician,  pulK 
lished  in  1800  an  edition  of  Burns 's  works,  with  an  account  of 
his  life,  in  aid  of  the  poet's  family.  The  Life  of  Burns,  written 
by  Josiali  Walker,  later  Professor  of  Humanity  in  Glasgow  Uni- 
versity, to  accompany  an  edition  of  Burns's  works  published  in 
1811,  has  no  permanent  value. 

Unlike  the  other  two  men,  Lockhart  does  not  appeal  to  us  as 
much  by  his  personal  character  as  by  his  writings.  The  Life 
and  Letters  of  John  Gibson  Lockhart,  by  Andrew  Lang,  is  the  best 
book  with  regard  to  him. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.' 


In  the  modern  arrangements  of  society,  it  is  no 
uncommon  thing  that  a  man  of  genius  must,  like 
Butler, 2  "ask  for  bread  and  receive  a  stone;  "  for,  in 
spite  of  our  grand  maxim  of  supply  and  demand,  it  is 
by  no  means  the  highest  excellence  that  men  are  most 
forward  to  recognize.  The  inventor  of  a  spinning- 
jenny  is  pretty  sure  of  his  reward  in  his  own  day ;  but 
the  writer  of  a  true  poem,  like  the  apostle  of  a  true 
religion,  is  nearly  as  sure  of  the  contrary.  We  do 
not  know  whether  it  is  not  an  aggravation  of  the  in- 
justice, that  there  is  generally  a  posthumous  retribu- 
tion. Robert  Burns,  in  the  course  of  Nature,  might 
yet  have  been  living;  but  his  short  life  was  spent  in 
toil  and  penury;  and  he  died,  in  the  prime  of  his 
manhood,  miserable  and  neglected:  and  yet  already 
a  brave  mausoleum  shines  ever  his  dust,^  and  more 

1  The  text  followed  is  that  of  Carlyle's  latest  authorized 
form.  Important  variations  from  the  form  as  printed  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review  are  pointed  out. 

2  Samuel  Butler  (1612-1680).  Hudihras  was  one  of  Carlyle'a 
favorite  books. 

2  "  In  1813  a  public  meeting  was  held  in  Dumfries  ;  a  sub- 
scription was  opened,  and,  contributions  flowing  in  rapidly  from 
all  quarters,  a  costly  mausoleum  was  at  length  erected  on  the 
most  elevated  site  which  the  churchyard  presented.  Thither 
the  remains  of  the  poet  were  solemnly  transferred  on  the  5th  of 
June,  1815."  —  Lockhart,  chap.  ix. 

Carlyle  used  brave  ironically  in  the  sense  of  beautiful,  splendid. 


2  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

than  one  splendid  monument  has  been  reared  m  other 
places  to  his  fame ;  the  street  where  he  languished  in 
poverty  is  called  by  his  name ;  ^  the  highest  person- 
ages in  our  literature  have  been  proud  to  appear  as 
his  commentators  and  admirers;  and  here  is  the  sixth 
narrative  of  his  life  that  has  been  given  to  the  world !  ^ 
Mr.  Lockhart  thinks  it  necessary  to  apologize  for 
this  new  attempt  on  such  a  subject :  but  his  readers, 
we  believe,  will  readily  acquit  him ;  or,  at  worst,  will 
censure  only  the  performance  of  his  task,  not  the 
choice  of  it.  The  character  of  Burns,  indeed,  is  a 
theme  that  cannot  easily  become  either  trite  or  ex- 
hausted; and  will  probably  gain  rather  than  lose  in 
its  dimensions  by  the  distance  to  which  it  is  removed 
by  Time.  No  man,  it  has  been  said,  is  a  hero  to  his 
valet ;  and  this  is  probably  true ;  but  the  fault  is  at 
least  as  likely  to  be  the  valet's  as  the  hero's.  For  it 
is  certain,  that  to  the  vulgar  eye  few  things  are  won- 
derful that  are  not  distant.  It  is  difficult  for  men  to 
believe  that  the  man,  the  mere  man  whom  they  see, 
nay  perhaps  painfully  feel  toiling  at  their  side  through 
the  poor  jostlings  of  existence,  can  be  made  of  finer 
clay  than  themselves.  Suppose  that  some  dining  ac- 
quaintance of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's,  and  neighbor  of 
John  a  Combe's,^  had  snatched  an  hour  or  two  from 
the  preservation  of  his  game,  and  written  us  a  Life 

Lockhart  says  mildly  :  "  The  structure  is  perhaps  more  gaudy 
than  might  have  been  wished." 

1  The  name  of  the  Mill  Vennel  in  Dumfries,  where  Burns  lived 
from  May,  1793,  until  his  death,  was  changed  to  Burns  Street. 

2  The  five  Lives  of  Burns  referred  to  by  Carlyle  are  probably 
those  mentioned  by  Lockhart,  by  Walker,  Currie,  Heron,  Irving, 
and  Peterkin.     In  reality  the  number  was  still  larger. 

^  To  understand  these  references,  read  any  good  sketch  of 
Shakespeare's  life. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  8 

of  Shakespeare!  What  dissertations  should  we,  ^lot 
have  had, — not  on  "Hamlet"  and  "The  Temj)est," 
but  on  the  wool -trade,  and  deer-stealing,  and  the  libel 
and  vagrant  laws;  and  how  the  Poacher  became  a 
Player;  and  how  Sir  Thomas  and  Mr.  John  had 
Christian  bowels,  and  did  not  push  him  to  extremi- 
ties! In  like  manner,  we  believe,  with  respect  to 
Burns,  that  till  the  companions  of  his  pilgrimage, 
the  Honorable  Excise  Commissioners,  and  the  Gen- 
tlemen of  the  Caledonian  Hunt,^  and  the  Dumfries 
Aristocracy,  and  all  the  Squires  and  Earls,  equally 
with  the  Ayr  Writers, ^  and  the  New  and  Old  Light 
Clergy,  whom  he  had  to  do  with,  shall  have  become 
invisible  in  the  darkness  of  the  Past,  or  visible  only 
by  light  borrowed  from  his  juxtaposition,  it  will  be 
difficult  to  measure  him  by  any  true  standard,  or  to 
estimate  what  he  really  was  and  did,  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  for  his  country  and  the  world.  It  will  be 
difficult,  we  say;  but  still  a  fair  problem  for  liter- 
ary historians ;  and  repeated  attempts  will  give  us  re^ 
peated  approximations. 

'  His  former  Biographers  have  done  something,  no 
doubt,  but  by  no  means  a  great  deal,  to  assist  us. 
Dr.  Currie  and  Mr.  Walker,  the  principal  of  these 
writers,  have  both,  we  think,  mistaken  one  essentially 
important  thing:  Their  own  and  the  world's  true, 
relation  to  their  author,  and  the  style  in  which  it  be- 

^  "  The  Caledonian  Hunt,  an  association  of  the  principal  of  the 
nobility  and  gentry  of  Scotland,  extended  their  patronage  to  our 
bard.  He  repaid  the  notice  by  a  dedication  of  the  enlarged  and 
improved  [the  first  Edinburgh']  edition  of  his  poems."  —  Currie's 
Life  of  Burns, 

2  In  Scotland  turiter  is  used  loosely  of  law  agents,  solicitors, 
attorneys,  and  the  like,  and  sometimes  even  of  their  principal 
clerks.     Burns  alludes  to  the  Ayr  writers  in  The  Brigs  of  Ay 


4  ^      THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

came  such  men  to  think  and  to  speak  of  such  a  man. 
Dr.  Currie  loved  the  poet  truly;  more  perhaps  than 
he  avowed  to  his  readers,  or  even  to  himself;  yet  he 
everywhere  introduces  him  with  a  certain  patronizing, 
apologetic  air;  as  if  the  polite  public  might  think 
it  strange  and  half  unwarrantable  that  he,  a  man 
of  science,  a  scholar  and  gentleman,  should  do  such 
honor  to  a  rustic.  In  all  this,  however,  we  readily 
admit  that  his  fault  was  not  want  of  love,  but  weak- 
ness of  faith;  and  regret  that  the  first  and  kindest 
of  all  our  poet's  biographers  should  not  have  seen 
farther,  or  believed  more  boldly  what  he  saw.  Mr. 
Walker  offends  more  deeply  in  the  same  kind:  and 
both  err  alike  in  presenting  us  with  a  detached  cata- 
logue of  his  several  supposed  attributes,  virtues  and 
vices,  instead  of  a  delineation  of  the  resulting  char- 
acter as  a  living  unity.  This,  however,  is  not  paint- 
ing a  portrait ;  but  gauging  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  several  features,  and  jotting  down  their  di- 
mensions in  arithmetical  ciphers.  Nay,  it  is  not  so 
much  as  that :  for  we  are  yet  to  learn  by  what  arts 
or  instruments  the  mind  could  be  so  measured  and 
gauged. 

Mr.  Lockhart,  we  are  happy  to  say,  has  avoided 
both  these  errors.  He  uniformly  treats  Burns  as 
the  high  and  remarkable  man  the  public  voice  has 
now  pronounced  him  to  be :  and  in  delineating  him, 
he  has  avoided  the  method  of  separate  generalities, 
and  rather  sought  for  characteristic  incidents,  habits, 
actions,  sayings;  in  a  word,  for  aspects  which  exhibit 
the  whole  man,  as  he  looked  and  lived  among  his  fel- 
lows. The  book  accordingly,  with  all  its  deficiencies, 
gives  more  insight,  we  think,  into  the  true  character 
of  Burns  than  any  prior  biography:  though,  being 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  5 

written  on  the  very  popular  and  condensed  scheme  of 
an  article  for  "Constable's  Miscellany/' ^  it  has  less 
depth  than  we  could  have  wished  and  expected  from 
a  writer  of  such  power;  and  contains  rather  more, 
and  more  multifarious  quotations  than  belong  of  right 
to  an  original  production.  Indeed,  Mr.  Lockhart's 
own  writing  is  generally  so  good,  so  clear,  direct  and 
nervous,  that  we  seldom  wish  to  see  it  making  place 
for  another  man's.  However,  the  spirit  of  the  work 
is  throughout  candid,  tolerant  and  anxiously  con- 
ciliating; compliments  and  praises  are  liberally  dis- 
tributed,, on  all  hands,  to  great  and  small;  and,  as 
Mr.  Morris  Birkbeck^  observes  of  the  society  in  the 
backwoods  of  America,  "the  courtesies  of  polite  life 
are  never  lost  sight  of  for  a  moment."  But  there  are 
better  things  than  these  in  the  volume ;  and  we  can 
safely  testify,  not  only  that  it  is  easily  and  pleasantly 
read  a  first  time,  but  may  even  be  without  difficulty 
read  again.  ^ 

1  The  Edinburgh  Review  owed  much  of  its  success  to  Archi- 
bald Constable,  its  first  printer.  Constable  rose  to  be  one  of  the 
chief  publishers  of  his  time,  and  is  especially  famous  for  his  con- 
nection with  Scott,  but  became  bankrupt  in  1826.  Constable's 
Miscellany  of  Original  and  Selected  Publications  in  Literature, 
Science,  and  the  A  rts  has  a  pathetic  interest  as  being  the  poor 
fulfilment  of  a  scheme  that  he  had  formed,  before  his  failure,  of 
a  series  of  cheap  volumes  that  should  sell,  he  told  Scott,  "  not  by- 
thousands  or  tens  of  thousands,  but  by  hundreds  of  thousands  — 
aye,  by  millions." 

-  Author  of  Notes  on  a  Journey  in  America,  from  the  Coast  of 
Virginia  to  the  Territory  of  Illinois.     (London,  1818.) 

3  Carlj^le's  judgment  on  Lockhart's  work  seems  to  have  im- 
proved with  reflection.  In  a  letter  to  his  brother,  June  10, 1828, 
he  writes  :  "  Lockhart  had  written  a  kind  of  Life  of  Burns,  and 
men  in  general  were  making  another  uproar  about  Burns  ;  it  is 
this  Book  (a  trivial  enough  one)  which  I  am  to  pretend  vexiQVf'mg." 


6  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

Nevertheless,  we  are  far  from  thinking  that  th*? 
problem  of  Burns 's  Biography  has  yet  been  adequately 
solved.  We  do  not  allude  so  much  to  deficiency  of 
facts  or  documents,  —  though  of  these  we  are  still 
every  day  receiving  some  fresh  accession,  —  as  to  the 
limited  and  imperfect  application  of  them  to  the  great 
end  of  Biography.  Our  notions  upon  this  subject 
may  perhaps  appear  extravagant;  but  if  an  individ- 
ual is  really  of  consequence  enough  to  have  his  life 
and  character  recorded  for  public  remembrance,  we 
have  always  been  of  opinion  that  the  public  ought  to 
be  made  acquainted  with  all  the  inward  springs  and 
relations  of  his  character.  How  did  the  world  and 
man's  life,  from  his  particular  position,  represent 
themselves  to  his  mind?  How  did  co-existing  cir- 
cumstances modify  him  from  without;  how  did  he 
modify  these  from  within?  With  what  endeavors 
and  what  efficacy  rule  over  them;  with  what  resist- 
ance and  what  suffering  sink  under  them?  In  one 
word,  what  and  how  produced  was  the  effect  of  so- 
ciety on  him ;  what  and  how  produced  was  his  effect 
on  society?  He  who  should  answer  these  questions, 
in  regard  to  any  individual',  would,  as  we  believe, 
furnish  a  model  of  perfection  in  Biography.  Few 
individuals,  indeed,  can  deserve  such  a  study;  and 
many  lives  will  be  written,  and,  for  the  gratification 
of  innocent  curiosity,  ought  to  be  written,  and  read 
and  forgotten,  which  are  not  in  this  sense  hiograpliies. 
But  Burns,  if  we  mistake  not,  is  one  of  these  few 
individuals;  and  such  a  study,  at  least  with  such  a 
result,  he  has  not  yet  obtained.  Our  own  contri- 
butions to  it,  we  are  aware,  can  be  but  scanty  and 
feeble ;  but  we  offer  them  with  good-will,  and  trust 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  7 

they  may  meet  with  acceptance  from  those  they  are 
intended  for.^ 

Burns  first  came  upon  the  world  as  a  prodigy;  and 
was,  in  that  character,  entertained  by  it,  in  the  usual 
fashion,  with  loud,  vague,  tumultuous  wonder,  speed- 
ily subsiding  into  censure  and  neglect;  till  his  early 
and  most  mournful  death  again  awakened  an  enthu- 
siasm for  him,  which,  especially  as  there  was  now 
nothing  to  be  done,  and  much  to  be  spoken,  has  pro- 
longed itself  even  to  our  own  time.  It  is  true,  the 
"nine  days"  have  long  since  elapsed;  and  the  very 
continuance  of  this  clamor  proves  that  Burns  was  no 
vulgar  wonder.  Accordingly,  even  in  sober  judg- 
ments, where,  as  years  passed  by,  he  has  come  to  rest 
more  and  more  exclusively  on  his  own  intrinsic  merits, 
and  may  now  be  well-nigh  shorn  of  that  casual  radi- 
ance, he  appears  not  only  as  a  true  British  poet,  but 
as  one  of  the  most  considerable  British  men  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  Let  it  not  be  objected  that  he 
did  little.  He  did  much,  if  we  consider  where  and 
how.  If  the  work  performed  was  small,  we  must 
remember  that  he  had  his  very  materials  to  discover ; 
for  the  metal  he  worked  in  lay  hid  under  the  desert 
moor,  where  no  eye  but  his  had  guessed  its  existence; 
and  we  may  almost  say,  that  with  his  own  hand  he 
had  to  construct  the  tools  for  fashioning  it.  For 
he  found  himself  in  deepest  obscurit}^  without  help, 
without  instruction,  without  model;  or  with  models 
only  of  the  meanest  sort.  An  educated  man  stands, 
as  it  were,  in  the  midst*  of  a  boundless  arsenal  and 

^  The  apologetic  expressions  in  the  early  part  of  this  essay 
may,  as  Mr.  H.  W.  Boynton  well  suggests  in  his  excellent  edi- 
tion, be  relics  of  Jeffrey's  editing. 


8  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

magazine,  filled  with  all  the  weapons  and  engines 
which  man's  skill  has  been  able  to  devise  from  the 
earliest  time;  and  he  works,  accordingly,  with  a 
strength  borrowed  from  all  past  ages.  How  different 
is  Ms  state  who  stands  on  the  outside  of  that  store- 
house, and  feels  that  its  gates  must  be  stormed,  or 
remain  forever  shut  against  him !  His  means  are  the 
commonest  and  rudest;  the  mere  work  done  is  no 
measure  of  his  strength.  A  dwarf  behind  his  steam- 
engine  may  remove  mountains;  but  no  dwarf  will 
hew  them  down  with  a  pickaxe;  and  he  must  be  a 
Titan  that  hurls  them  abroad  with  his  arms. 

It  is  in  this  last  shape  that  Burns  presents  himself. 
Born  in  an  age  the  most  prosaic  Britain  had  yet  seen, 
and  in  a  condition  the  most  disadvantageous,  where 
his  mind,  if  it  accomplished  aught,  must  accomplish 
it  under  the  pressure  of  contiinial  bodily  toil,  nay 
of  penury  and  desponding  apprehension  of  the  worst 
evils,  and  with  no  furtherance  but  such  knowledge 
as  dwells  in  a  poor  man's  hut,  and  the  rhjanes  of  a 
Ferguson  or  Ramsay  ^  for  his  standard  of  beauty,  he 
sinks  not  under  all  these  impediments:  through  the 
fogs  and  darkness  of  that  obscure  region,  his  lynx 
eye  discerns  the  true  relations  of  the  world  and  human 
life;  he  grows  into  intellectual  strength,  and  trains 
himself  into  intellectual  expertness.  Impelled  by  the 
expansive  movement  of  his  own  irrepressible  soul,  he 

^  Carlyle  is  always  extreme  in  his  judgments,  and  here  is  un- 
justly contemptuous  of  men  whom,  as  the  quotation  from  Scott 
below  (p.  60)  will  show,  Burns  always  regarded  as  his  models, 
and  whom  he  often  directly  and  openly  imitated.  Ramsay  has 
been  admired  by  men  as  different  as  Pope  and  Leigh  Hunt  ;  and 
Stevenson,  whose  estimate  of  these  men  in  his  essay  on  Some 
Aspects  of  Robert  Burns  it  would  be  well  to  read,  places  the 
"poor  lad  Fergusson  "  even  higher  than  Ramsay. 


ESSAY   ON  BURNS.  9 

struggles  forward  into  the  general  view;  and  with 
haughty  modesty  lays  down  before  us,  as  the  fruit 
of  his  labor,  a  gift  which  Time  has  now  pronounced 
imperishable.  Add  to  all  this,  that  his  darksome 
drudging  childhood  and  youth  was  by  far  the  kind- 
liest era  of  his  whole  life;  and  that  he  died  in  his 
thirty-seventh  year:  and  then  ask,  If  it  be  strange 
that  his  poems  are  imperfect,  and  of  small  extent,  or 
that  his  genius  attained  no  mastery  in  its  art?  Alas, 
his  Sun  shone  as  through  a  tropical  tornado ;  and  the 
pale  Shadow  of  Death  eclipsed  it  at  noon !  Shrouded 
in  such  baleful  vapors,  the  genius  of  Burns  was  never 
seen  in  clear  azure  splendor,  enlightening  the  world : 
but  some  beams  from  it  did,  by  fits,  pierce  through; 
and  it  tinted  those  clouds  with  rainbow  and  orient 
colors,  into  a  glory  and  stern  grandeur,  which  men 
silently  gazed  on  with  wonder  and  tears ! 

We  are  anxious  not  to  exaggerate;  for  it  is  exposi- 
tion rather  than  admiration  that  our  readers  require 
of  us  here ;  and  yet  to  avoid  some  tendency  to  that 
side  is  no  easy  matter.  We  love  Burns,  and  we  pity 
him ;  and  love  and  pity  are  prone  to  magnify.  Criti- 
cism, it  is  sometimes  thought,  should  be  a  cold  busi- 
ness ;  we  are  not  so  sure  of  this ;  ^  but,  at  all  events, 
our  concern  with  Burns  is  not  exclusively  that  of 
critics.  True  and  genial  as  his  poetry  must  appear, 
it  is  not  chiefly  as  a  poet,  but  as  a  man,  that  he  inter- 
ests and  aifects  us.  He  was  often  advised  to  write 
a  tragedy; 2  time  and  means  were  not  lent  him  for 

^  Here  Carlyle  touches  on  the  source  of  his  own  power,  — the 
maxim  that  tlie  pleasure  of  criticism  deprives  us  of  that  of  vivid 
appreciation  does  not  apply  to  him. 

2  The  Tragic  Fragment  printed  in  Burns's  works  was  written 
when  he  was  only  nineteen.  And  in  1790  Burns  told  friends 
that  he  was  preparing  to  write  a  play  on  a  subject  drawn  from 
Scottish  history. 


k 


10  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

this ;  but  through  life  he  enacted  a  tragedy,  and  one 
of  the  deepest.  We  question  whether  the  world  has 
since  witnessed  so  utterly  sad  a  scene ;  whether  Napo- 
leon himself,  left  to  brawl  with  Sir  Hudson  Lowe, 
and  perish  on  his  rock,  "amid  the  melancholy  main," 
presented  to  the  reflecting  mind  such  a  "spectacle  of 
pity  and  fear "  as  did  this  intrinsically  nobler,  gen- 
tler and  perhaps  greater  soul,  wasting  itself  away  in 
a  hopeless  struggle  with  base  entanglements,  which 
coiled  closer  and  closer  round  him  till  only  death 
opened  him  an  outlet.  Conquerors  are  a  class  of  men 
with  whom,  for.  most  part,  the  world  could  well  dis- 
pense ;  nor  can  the  hard  intellect,  the  unsympathizing 
loftiness  and  high  but  selfish  enthusiasm  of  such  per- 
sons inspire  us  in  general  with  any  affection ;  at  best 
it  may  excite  amazement ;  and  their  fall,  like  that  of 
a  pyramid,  will  be  beheld  with  a  certain  sadness  and 
awe.  But  a  true  Poet,  a  man  in  whose  heart  resides 
some  effluence  of  Wisdom,  some  tone  of  the  "Eternal 
Melodies,"  is  the  most  precious  gift  that  can  be  be- 
stowed on  a  generation:  we  see  in  him  a  freer,  purer 
development  of  whatever  is  noblest  in  ourselves;  his 
life  is  a  rich  lesson  to  us ;  and  we  mourn  his  death  as 
that  of  a  benefactor  who  loved  and  taught  us.^ 

Such  a  gift  had  Nature,  in  her  bounty,  bestowed 
on  us  in  Robert  Burns ;  but  with  queenlike  indiffer- 
ence she  cast  it  from  her  hand,  like  a  thing  of  no 

1  Though  Carlyle  never  changed  his  opinion  of  a  true  poet, 
his  later  writings  show  a  very  different  estimate  of  the  value  of 
conquerors  to  the  world.  After  his  removal  to  London,  he 
writes  but  little  on  literature,  and  is  usually  full  of  scorn  for  the 
profession  of  letters.  He  tends  to  idealize  mere  strength  of  will 
and  brute  force  of  character,  if  accompanied  by  sincerity.  He 
praises  the  power  of  silent  action ;  and  his  favorite  heroes  are 
men  of  deedso  like  Cromwell  and  Frederick. 


ESSAY   ON  BURNS.  11 

moment ;  and  it  was  defaced  and  torn  asunder,  as  an 
idle  bauble,  before  we  recognized  it.  To  the  ill- 
starred  Burns  was  given  the  power  of  making  man's 
life  more  venerable,  but  that  of  wisely  guiding  his 
own  life  was  not  given .  Destiny,  —  for  so  in  our 
ignorance  we  must  speak,  —  his  faults,  the  faults  of 
others,  proved  too  hard  for  him;  and  that  spirit, 
which  might  have  soared  could  it  but  have  walked, 
soon  sank  to  the  dust,  its  glorious  faculties  trodden 
under  foot  in  the  blossom ;  and  died,  we  may  almost 
say,  without  ever  having  lived.  And  so  kind  and 
warm  a  soul ;  so  full  of  inborn  riches,  of  love  to  all 
living  and  lifeless  things !  How  his  heart  flows  out 
in  sympathy  over  universal  Nature ;  and  in  her  bleak- 
est provinces  discerns  a  beauty  and  a  meaning !  The 
"Daisy"  falls  not  unheeded  under  his  ploughshare; 
nor  the  ruined  nest  of  that  "wee,  cowering,  timorous 
beastie,"  cast  forth,  after  all  its  provident  pains,  to 
"thole  the  sleety  dribble  and  cranreuch  cauld."^ 
The  "hoar  visage  "  of  Winter  delights  him;  he  dwells 
with  a  sad  and  oft-returning  fondness  in  these  scenes 
of  solemn  desolation;  but  the  voice  of  the  tempest 
becomes  an  anthem  to  his  ears ;  he  loves  to  walk  in 
the  sounding  woods,  for  "it  raises  his  thoughts  to 
Him  that  walheth  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.''^^  A 
true  Poet-soul,  for  it  needs  but  to  be  struck,  and  the 
sound  it  yields  will  be  music!  But  observe  him 
chiefly  as  he  mingles  with  his  brother  men.  What 
warm,  all-comprehending  fellow-feeling;  what  trust- 

1  See  To  a  Mountain  Daisy  and  To  a  Mouse.  Cranreuch  = 
hoar  frost. 

2  This  passage  is  suggested  by  a  prose  entry  in  Burns's  Com- 
mon-Place  Book  (April,  1784),  which  serves  as  introduction  to 
the  poem  Winter.     The  words  in  italics  are  from  Fsalm  104. 


12  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

ful,  boundless  love;  what  generous  exaggeration  of 
the  object  loved!  His  rustic  friend,  his  nut-brown 
maiden,  are  no  longer  mean  and  homely,  but  a  hero 
and  a  queen,  whom  he  prizes  as  the  paragons  of 
Earth.  The  rough  scenes  of  Scottish  life,  not  seen 
by  him  in  any  Arcadian  illusion,  but  in  the  rude  con- 
tradiction, in  the  smoke  and  soil  of  a  too  harsh  real- 
ity, are  still  lovely  to  him:  Poverty  is  indeed  his 
companion,  but  Love  also,  and  Courage;  the  simple 
feelings,  the  worth,  the  nobleness,  that  dwell  under 
the  straw  roof,  are  dear  and  venerable  to  his  heart: 
and  thus  over  the  lowest  provinces  of  man's  existence 
he  pours  the  glory  of  his  own  soul ;  and  they  rise,  in 
shadow  and  sunshine,  softened  and  brightened  into  a 
beauty  which  other  eyes  discern  not  in  the  highest. 
He  has  a  just  self-consciousness,  which  too  often 
degenerates  into  pride;  yet  it  is  a  noble  pride,  for 
defence,  not  for  offence;  no  cold  suspicious  feeling, 
but  a  frank  and  social  one.  The  Peasant  Poet  bears 
himself,  we  might  say,  like  a  King  in  exile:  he  is 
cast  among  the  low,  and  feels  himself  equal  to  the 
highest ;  yet  he  claims  no  rank,  that  none  may  be  dis- 
puted to  him.  The  forward  he  can  repel,  the  super- 
cilious he  can  subdue ;  pretensions  of  wealth  or  ances- 
try are  of  no  avail  with  him ;  there  is  a  fire  in  that 
dark  eye,  under  which  the  "insolence  of  condescen- 
sion "  cannot  thrive.  In  his  abasement,  in  his  ex- 
treme need,  he  forgets  not  for  a  moment  the  majesty 
of  Poetry  and  Manhood.  And  yet,  far  as  he  feels 
himself  above  common  men,  he  wanders  not  apart 
from  them,  but  mixes  w^armly  in  their  interests;  nay 
throws  himself  into  their  arms,  and,  as  it  were,  en- 
treats them  to  love  him.  It  is  moving  to  see  how,  in 
his  darkest  despondency,  this  proud  being  still  seeks 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  13 

relief  from  friendship;  unbosoms  himseK,  often  to 
the  unworthy ;  and,  amid  tears,  strains  to  his  glowing 
heart  a  heart  that  knows  only  the  name  of  friendship. 
And  yet  he  was  "quick  to  learn;"  a  man  of  keen 
vision,  before  whom  common  disguises  afforded  no 
concealment.  His  understanding  saw  through  the 
hollowness  even  of  accomplished  deceivers ;  but  there 
was  a  generous  credulity  in  his  heart.  And  so  did 
our  Peasant  show  himself  among  us ;  "a  soul  like  an 
^olian  harp,  in  whose  strings  the  vulgar  wind,  as 
it  passed  through  them,  changed  itself  into  articulate 
melody."  ^  And  this  was  he  for  whom  the  world 
found  no  fitter  business  than  quarrelling  with  smug- 
glers and  vintners,  computing  excise-dues  upon  tal- 
low, and  gauging  ale-barrels !  In  such  toils  was  that 
mighty  Spirit  sorrowfully  wasted:  and  a  hundred 
years  may  pass  on  before  another  such  is  given  us  to 
waste. 

All  that  remains  of  Burns,  the  Writings  he  has 
left,  seem  to  us,  as  we  hinted  above,  no  more  than  a 
poor  mutilated  fraction  of  what  was  in  him;  brief, 
broken  glimpses  of  a  genius  that  could  never  show 
itself  complete ;  that  wanted  all  things  for  complete- 
ness :  culture,  leisure,  true  effort,  nay  even  length  of 
life.  His  poems  are,  with  scarcely  any  exception, 
mere  occasional  effusions;  poured  forth  with  little 
premeditation ;  expressing,  by  such  means  as  offered, 
the  passion,  opinion,  or  humor  of  the  hour.  Never 
in  one  instance  was  it  permitted  him  to  grapple  with 

1  The  figure  is  a  favorite  one  with  Burns  ;  see,  for  example, 
the  passage  quoted  below,  page  30.  The  present  quotation  may 
be  from  Richter  (compare  p.  81),  in  whom,  according  to  Mr. 
Boynton,  the  figure  is  also  frequent. 


14  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

any  subject  with  the  full  collection  of  his  strength,  to 
fuse  and  mould  it  in  the  concentrated  fire  of  his  gen- 
ius. To  try  by  the  strict  rules  of  Art  such  imperfect 
fragments,  would  be  at  once  unprofitable  and  unfair. 
Nevertheless,  there  is  something  in  these  poems, 
marred  and  defective  as  they  are,  which  forbids  the 
most  fastidious  student  of  poetry  to  pass  them  by. 
Some  sort  of  enduring  quality  they  must  have:  for 
after  fifty  years  of  the  wildest  vicissitudes  in  poetic 
taste,  they  still  continue  to  be  read;  nay  are  read 
more  and  more  eagerly,  more  and  more  extensively; 
and  this  not  only  by  literary  virtuosos,  and  that  class 
upon  whom  transitory  causes  operate  most  strongly, 
but  by  all  classes,  down  to  the  most  hard,  unlettered 
and  truly  natural  class,  who  read  little,  and  especially 
no  poetry,  except  because  they  find  pleasure  in  it. 
The  grounds  of  so  singular  and  wide  a  popularity, 
which  extends,  in  a  literal  sense,  from  the  palace 
to  the  hut,  and  over  all  regions  where  the  Eng- 
lish tongue  is  spoken,  are  well  worth  inquiring  into. 
After  every  just  deduction,  it  seems  to  imply  some  rare 
excellence  in  these  works.  What  is  that  excellence? 
To  answer  this  question  will  not  lead  us  far.  The 
excellence  of  Burns  is,  indeed,  among  the  rarest, 
whether  in  poetry  or  prose ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  it 
is  plain  and  easily  recognized :  his  Sincerity^  his  in- 
disputable air  of  Truth.  Here  are  no  fabulous  woes 
or  joys;  no  hollow  fantastic  sentimentalities;  no  wire- 
drawn refinings,  either  in  thought  or  feeling :  the  pas- 
sion that  is  traced  before  us  has  glowed  in  a  living 
heart;  the  opinion  he  utters  has  risen  in  his  own  un- 
derstanding, and  been  a  light  to  his  own  steps.  He 
does  not  write  from  hearsay,  but  from  sight  and  expe- 
rience; it  is  the  scenes  that  he  has  lived  and  labored 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  15 

amidst,  that  he  describes:  those  scenes,  rude  and 
humble  as  they  are,  have  kindled  beautiful  emotions 
in  his  soul,  noble  thoughts,  and  definite  resolves; 
and  he  speaks  forth  what  is  in  him,  not  from  any- 
outward  call  of  vanity  or  interest,  but  because  his 
heart  is  too  full  to  be  silent.  He  speaks  it  with  such 
melody  and  modulation  as  he  can ;  "  in  homely  rustic 
jingle ;  "  but  it  is  his  own,  and  genuine.  This  is  the 
grand  secret  for  finding  readers  and  retaining  them: 
let  him  who  would  move  and  convince  others,  be  first 
moved  and  convinced  himself.  Horace's  rule,  Si  vis 
meflere^^  is  applicable  in  a  wider  sense  than  the  literal 
one.  To  every  poet,  to  every  writer,  we  might  say : 
Be  true,  if  you  would  be  believed.  Let  a  man  but 
speak  forth  with  genuine  earnestness  the  thought,  the 
emotion,  the  actual  condition  of  his  own  heart;  and 
other  men,  so  strangely  are  we  all  knit  together  by 
the  tie  of  sympathy,  must  and  will  give  heed  to  him. 
In  culture,  in  extent  of  view,  we  may  stand  above 
the  speaker,  or  below  him;  but  in  either  case,  his 
words,  if  they  are  earnest  and  sincere,  will  find  some 
response  within  us ;  for  in  spite  of  all  casual  varieties 
in  outward  rank  or  inward,  as  face  answers  to  face, 
so  does  the  heart  of  man  to  man.^ 

This  may  appear  a  very  simple  principle,  and  one 

1  "  Ut  ridentibus  arrident,  ita  flentibus  adflent 
Humani  voltus  ;  si  vis  me  Here,  dolendum  est 
Primum  ipsi  tibi." 

—  Ars  Poetica,  101-103. 

"  As  men's  faces  laugh  with  those  that  laugh,  so  they  weep 
with  those  that  weep;  if  thou  wouldst  have  me  weep,  thou  must 
first  feel  grief  thyself." 

2  Sincerity  is  the  test  by  which  Carlyle  judges  all  men;  praise 
of  it  is  one  of  the  keynotes  of  his  writings.  Unfortunately  he 
often  confounds  it  with  mere  brute  force  of  character  and  fixity 
of  purpose. 


16  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

which  Burns  had  little  merit  in  discovering.  True, 
the  discovery  is  easy  enough :  but  the  practical  appli- 
ance is  not  easy ;  is  indeed  the  fundamental  difficulty 
which  all  poets  have  to  strive  with,  and  which  scarcely 
one  in  the  hundred  ever  fairly  surmounts.  A  head 
too  dull  to  discriminate  the  true  from  the  false;  a 
heart  too  dull  to  love  the  one  at  all  risks,  and  to  hate 
the  other  in  spite  of  all  temptations,  are  alike  fatal 
to  a  writer.  With  either,  or  as  more  commonly  hap- 
pens, with  both  of  these  deficiencies  combine  a  love 
of  distinction,  a  wish  to  be  original,  which  is  seldom 
wanting,  and  we  have  Affectation,  the  bane  of  litera- 
ture, as  Cant,  its  elder  brother,  is  of  morals.  How 
often  does  the  one  and  the  other  front  us,  in  poetry, 
as  in  life!  Great  poets  themselves  are  not  always 
free  of  this  vice;  nay  it  is  precisely  on  a  certain  sort 
and  degree  of  greatness  that  it  is  most  commonly  in- 
grafted. A  strong  effort  after  excellence  will  some- 
times solace  itself  with  a  mere  shadow  of  success; 
he  who  has  much  to  unfold,  will  sometimes  unfold 
it  imperfectly.  Byron,  for  instance,  was  no  common 
man:  yet  if  we  examine  his  poetry  with  this  view, 
we  shall  find  it  far  enough  from  faultless.  Gener- 
ally speaking,  we  should  say  that  it  is  not  true.  He 
refreshes  us,  not  with  the  divine  fountain,  but  too 
often  with  vulgar  strong  waters,  stimulating  indeed  to 
the  taste,  but  soon  ending  in  dislike,  or  even  nausea. 
Are  his  Harolds  and  Giaours,  we  would  ask,  real 
men ;  we  mean,  poetically  consistent  and  conceivable 
men  ?  Do  not  these  characters,  does  not  the  charac- 
ter of  eheir  author,  which  more  or  less  shines  through 
them  all,  rather  appear  a  thing  put  on  for  the  occa- 
sion ;  no  natural  or  possible  mode  of  being,  but  some- 
thing intended  to  look  much  grander  than  nature? 


I 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  17 

Surely,  all  these  stormful  agonies,  this  volcanic  hero- 
ism, superhuman  contempt  and  moody  desperation, 
with  so  much  scowling,  and  teeth-gnashing,  and  other 
sulphurous  humor,  is  more  like  the  brawling  of  a 
player  in  some  paltry  tragedy,  which  is  to  last  three 
hours,  than  the  bearing  of  a  man  in  the  business  of 
life,  which  is  to  last  threescore  and  ten  years.  To 
our  minds  there  is  a  taint  of  this  sort,  something 
which  we  should  call  theatrical,  false,  affected,  in 
every  one  of  these  otherwise  so  powerful  pieces.  Per- 
haps "Don  Juan,"  especially  the  latter  parts  of  it,  is 
the  only  thing  approaching  to  a  sincere  work,  he 
ever  wrote ;  the  only  work  where  he  showed  himself, 
in  any  measure,  as  he  was;  and  seemed  so  intent  on 
his  subject  as,  for  moments,  to  forget  himself.  Yet 
Byron  hated  this  vice;  we  believe,  heartily  detested 
it:  nay  he  had  declared  formal  war  against  it  in 
words.  So  difficult  is  it  even  for  the  strongest  to 
make  this  primary  attainment,  which  might  seem  the 
simplest  of  all:  to  read  its  own  consciousness  without 
mistakes,  without  errors  involuntary  or  wilful!  We 
recollect,  no  poet  of  Burns 's  susceptibility  who  comes 
before  us  from  the  first,  and  abides  with  us  to  the 
last,  with  such  a  total  want  of  affectation.  He  is  an 
honest  man,  and  an  honest  writer.  In  his  successes 
and  his  failures,  in  his  greatness  and  his  littleness,  he 
is  ever  clear,  simple,  true,  and  glitters  with  no  lustre 
but  his  own.  We  reckon  this  to  be  a  great  virtue ; 
to  be,  in  fact,  the  root  of  most  other  virtues,  literary 
as  well  as  moral. 

Here,  however,  let  us  say,  it  is  to  the  poetry  of 
Burns  that  we  now  allude ;  to  those  writings  which  he 
had  time  to  meditate,  and  where  no  special  reason 
existed  to  warp  his  critical  feeling,  or  obstruct  his 


18  THOMAS   CAELYLE. 

endeavor  to  fulfil  it.  Certain  of  his  Letters,  and 
other  fractions  of  prose  composition,  by  no  means 
deserve  this  praise.  Here,  doubtless,  there  is  not 
the  same  natural  truth  of  style ;  but  on  the  contrary, 
something  not  only  stiff,  but  strained  and  twisted;  a 
certain  high-flown  inflated  tone;  the  stilting  emphasis 
of  which  contrasts  ill  with  the  firmness  and  rugged 
simplicity  of  even  his  poorest  verses.  Thus  no  man, 
it  would  appear,  is  altogether  unaffected.  Does  not 
Shakespeare  himseK  sometimes  premeditate  the  sheer- 
est bombast !  But  even  with  regard  to  these  Letters 
of  Burns,  it  is  but  fair  to  state  that  he  had  two  ex- 
cuses. The  first  was  his  comparative  deficiency  in 
language.  Burns,  though  for  most  part  he  writes 
with  singular  force  and  even  gracefulness,  is  not 
master  of  English  prose,  as  he  is  of  Scotch  verse; 
not  master  of  it,*we  mean,  in  proportion  to  the  depth 
and  vehemence  of  his  matter.  These  Letters  strike 
us  as  the  effort  of  a  man  to  express  something  which 
he  has  no  organ  fit  for  expressing.  But  a  second  and 
weightier  excuse  is  to  be  found  in  the  peculiarity  of 
Burns 's  social  rank.  His  correspondents  are  often 
men  whose  relation  to  him  he  has  never  accurately 
ascertained ;  whom  therefore  he  is  either  forearming 
himself  against,  or  else  unconsciously  flattering,  by 
adopting  the  style  he  thinks  will  please  them.^  At 
all  events,  we  should  remember  that  these  faults, 
even  in  his  Letters,  are  not  the  rule,  but  the  excep- 
tion. Whenever  he  writes,  as  one  would  ever  wish 
^  "How  perpetually  he  [Burns]  was  alive  to  the  dread  of 
being  looked  down  on  as  a  man,  even  by  those  who  most  zeal- 
ously applauded  the  works  of  his  genius,  might  perhaps  be 
traced  through  the  whole  sequence  of  his  letters.  When  writing 
to  men  of  high  station,  at  least,  he  preserves,  in  every  instance, 
the  attitude  of  self-defence."  —  Lockhart,  chap.  r. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  19 

to  do,  to  trusted  friends  and  on  real  interests,  hh 
style  becomes  simple,  vigorous,  expressive,  sometimes 
even  beautiful.  His  letters  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  are  uni- 
formly excellent. 

But  we  return  to  his  Poetry.     In  addition  to  its 
Sincerity,   it   has  another  peculiar  merit,   which  in- 
deed is  but  a  mode,  or  perhaps  a  means,  of  the  fore- 
going: this  displays  itself  in  his  choice  of  subjects; 
or  rather  in  his  indifference  as  to  subjects,  and  the 
power  he  has  of  making  all  subjects  interesting.     The 
ordinary   poet,    like    the    ordinary    man,    is   forever 
seeking  in  external  circumstances  the  help  which  can 
be  found  only  in  himself.     In  what  is  familiar  and 
near  at  hand,   he  discerns  no  form  or  comeliness; 
home  is  not  poetical  but  prosaic ;  it  is  in  some  past, 
distant,   conventional  heroic  world,    that  poetry  re- 
sides ;  were  he  there  and  not  here,  were  he  thus  and 
not  so,  it  would  be  well  with  him.     Hence  our  in- 
numerable host  of  rose-colored  Novels  and  iron-mailed 
Epics,  with  their  locality  not  on  the  Earth,  but  some- 
where nearer  to  the  Moon.     Hence  our  Virgins  of 
the  Sun,   and  our  Knights  of  the  Cross,   malicioui^ 
Saracens  in   turbans,   and  copper-colored   Chiefs  in 
wampum,  and  so  many  other  truculent  figures  from 
the  heroic  times  or  the  heroic  climates,  who  on  all 
hands  swarm  in  our  poetry.     Peace  be  with  them! 
But  yet,  as  a  great  moralist  proposed  preaching  to 
the  men  of  this  century,  so  would  we  fain  preach  to 
the  poets,  "a  sermon  on  the  duty  of  staying  at  home." 
Let  them  be  sure  that  heroic  ages  and  heroic  climates 
can  do  little  for  them.     That  form  of  life  has  attrac- 
tion for  us,  less  because  it  is  better  or  nobler  than 
our  own,   than  simply  because  it  is  different;    and 
even  this  attraction  must  be  of  the  most  transient 


20  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

sort.  For  will  not  our  own  age,  one  day,  be  an  an- 
cient one;  and  have  as  quaint  a  costume  as  the  rest; 
not  contrasted  with  the  rest,  therefore,  but  ranked 
along  with  them,  in  respect  of  quaintness?  Does 
Homer  interest  us  now,  because  he  wrote  of  what 
passed  beyond  his  native  Greece,  and  two  centuries 
before  he  was  born ;  or  because  he  wrote  what  passed 
in  God's  world,  and  in  the  heart  of  man,  which  is 
the  same  after  thirty  centuries?  Let  our  poets  look 
to  this :  is  their  feeling  really  finer,  truer,  and  their 
vision  deeper  than  that  of  other  men,  —  they  have 
nothing  to  fear,  even  from  the  humblest  subject;  is  it 
not  so,  —  they  have  nothing  to  hope,  but  an  ephem- 
eral favor,  even  from  the  highest.^ 

The  poet,  we  imagine,  can  never  have  far  to  seek 
for  a  subject :  the  elements  of  his  art  are  in  him,  and 
around  him  on  every  hand;  for  him  the  Ideal  world 
is  not  remote  from  the  Actual,  but  under  it  and 
within  it :  nay  he  is  a  poet,  precisely  because  he  can 
discern  it  there.  Wherever  there  is  a  sky  above  him, 
and  a  world  around  him,  the  poet  is  in  his  place ;  for 
here  too  is  man's  existence,  with  its  infinite  longings 
and  small  acquirings;  its  ever-thwarted,  ever-renewed 
endeavors;  its  unspeakable  aspirations,  its  fears  and 
hopes  that  wander  through  Eternity;  and  all  the 
mystery  of  brightness  and  of  gloom  that  it  was  ever 
made  of,  in  any  age  or  climate,  since  man  first  began 

^  Scott,  Byron,  Moore,  Southey,  and  Cooper  are  the  most 
obvious  objects  of  this  attack;  but  they  had  a  host  of  imitators. 
Carlyle,  because  of  his  intense  moral  earnestness,  had  no  sym- 
pathy with  literature  written  only  to  give  amusement,  regard- 
less of  truth  to  life.  As  usual,  his  view,  though  stimulating, 
is  one-sided.  Many  of  the  most  justly  famous  books,  notably 
the  Arabian  Nights ^  are  great  by  the  pure  charm  of  incident  and 
invention. 


ESSAY   ON  BURNS.  21 

to  live.  Is  there  not  the  fifth  act  of  a  Tragedy  in 
every  deathbed,  though  it  were  a  peasant's,  and  a  bed 
of  heath?  And  are  wooings  and  weddings  obsolete, 
that  there  can  be  Comedy  no  longer?  Or  are  men 
suddenly  grown  wise,  that  Laughter  must  no  longei 
shake  his  sides,  but  be  cheated  of  his  Farce?  Man's 
life  and  nature  is,  as  it  was,  and  as  it  will  ever  be. 
But  the  poet  must  have  an  eye  to  read  these  things, 
and  a  heart  to  understand  them;  or  they  come  and 
pass  away  before  him  in  vain.  He  is  a  vates^  a  seer; 
a  gift  of  vision  has  been  given  him.  Has  life  no 
meanings  for  him,  which  another  cannot  equally  deci- 
pher? then  he  is  no  poet,  and  Delphi  itself  will  not 
make  him  one. 

In  this  respect.  Burns,  though  not  perhaps  abso- 
lutely a  great  poet,  better  manifests  his  capability, 
better  proves  the  truth  of  his  genius,  than  if  he  had 
by  his  own  strength  kept  the  whole  Minerva  Press " 
going,  to  the  end  of  his  literary  course.  He  shows 
himself  at  least  a  poet  of  Nature's  own  making;  and 
Nature,  after  all,  is  still  the  grand  agent  in  making 
poets.  We  often  hear  of  this  and  the  other  external 
condition  being  requisite  for  the  existence  of  a  poet. 
Sometimes  it  is  a  certain  sort  of  training;  he  must 
have  studied  certain  things,  studied,  for  instance, 
"the  elder  dramatists,"  and  so  learned  a  poetic  lan- 
guage; as  if  poetry  lay  in  the  tongue,  not  in  the 
heart.  At  other  times  we  are  told  he  must  be  bred 
in  a  certain  rank,  and  must  be  on  a  confidential  foot- 
ing with  the  higher  classes ;  because,  above  all  things, 
he  must  see  the  world.     As  to  seeing  the  world,  we 

^  "  A  printing-house  in  London,  which  was  noted  in  the  eigh- 
teenth centun?^  for  the  publication  of  trashy  sentimental  novels." 
•—  Century  Dictionary  of  Names. 


L 


22  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

apprehend  this  will  cause  him  little  difficulty,  if  he 
have  but  eyesight  to  see  it  with.  Without  eyesight, 
indeed,  the  task  might  be  hard.  The  blind  or  the 
purblind  man  "travels  from  Dan  to  Beersheba,  and 
finds  it  all  barren."  But  happily  every  poet  is  born 
\n  the  world;  and  sees  it,  with  or  against  his  will, 
every  day  and  every  hour  he  lives.  The  mysterious 
workmanship  of  man's  heart,  the  true  light  and  the 
inscrutable  darkness  of  man's  destiny,  reveal  them- 
selves not  only  in  capital  cities  and  crowded  saloons, 
but  in  every  hut  and  hamlet  where  men  have  their 
abode.  Nay,  do  not  the  elements  of  all  human  vir- 
tues and  all  human  vices ;  the  passions  at  once  of  a 
Borgia  and  of  a  Luther,  lie  written,  in  stronger  or 
fainter  lines,  in  the  consciousness  of  every  individual 
bosom,  that  has  practised  honest  self-examination? 
Truly,  this  same  world  may  be  seen  in  Mossgiel  and 
Tarbolton,  if  we  look  well,  as  clearly  as  it  ever  came 
to  light  in  Crockford's,^  or  the  Tuileries  itself. 

But  sometimes  still  harder  requisitions  are  laid  on 
the  poor  aspirant  to  poetry ;  for  it  is  hinted  that  he 
should  have  heen  horn  two  centuries  ago;  inasmuch 
as  poetry,  about  that  date,  vanished  from  the  earth, 
and  became  no  longer  attainable  by  men !  ^  Such 
cobweb  speculations  have,  now  and  then,  overhung 
the  field  of  literature;  but  they  obstruct  not  the 
growth  of  any  plant  there:  the  Shakespeare  or  the 
Burns,  unconsciously  and  merely  as  he  walks  onward, 
silently  brushes  them  away.  Is  not  every  genius  an 
impossibility  till  he  appear?  Why  do  we  call  him 
new  and  original,  if  we  saw  where  his  marble  was 
lying,  and  what  fabric  he  could  rear  from  it?     It  is 

^  A  famous  gaining  club-liouse  in  London.  ^ 

2  The  reference  is  to  Macaulay,  essay  on  Milton. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  23 

not  the  material  but  the  workman  that  is  wanting. 
It  is  not  the  dark  ^:)Zace  that  hinders,  but  the  dim  eye, 
A  Scottish  peasant's  life  was  the  meanest  and  rudest 
of  all  lives,  till  Burns  became  a  poet  in  it,  and  a 
poet  of  it;  found  it  a  mail's  life,  and  therefore  signifi- 
cant to  men.  A  thousand  battlefields  remain  unsung ; 
but  the  "Wounded  Hare"  has  not  perished  without 
its  memorial;  a  balm  of  mercy  yet  breathes  on  us 
from  its  dumb  agonies,  because  a  poet  was  there. 
Our  "Halloween"  had  passed  and  repassed,  in  rude 
awe  and  laughter,  since  the  era  of  the  Druids;  but 
no  Theocritus,  till  Burns,  discerned  in  it  the  materi- 
als of  a  Scottish  Idyl:  neither  was  the  "Holy  Fair" 
any  Council  of  Trent  or  Roman  Jubilee ;  but  never- 
theless, Superstition  and  Hypocrisy  and  Fun  having 
been  propitious  to  him,  in  this  man's  hand  it  became 
a  poem,  instinct  with  satire  and  genuine  comic  life.^ 
Let  but  the  true  poet  be  given  us,  we  repeat  it,  place 
him  where  and  how  you  will,  and  true  poetry  will  not 
be  wanting. 

Independently  of  the  essential  gift  of  poetic  feel- 
ing, as  we  have  now  attempted  to  describe  it,  a  cer- 
tain rugged  sterling  worth  pervades  whatever  Burns 
has  written;  a  virtue,  as  of  green  fields  and  moun- 
tain breezes,  dwells  in  his  poetry;  it  is  redolent  of 
natural  life  and  hardy  natural  men.  There  is  a  deci- 
sive strength  in  him,  and  yet  a  sweet  native  graceful- 
ness :  he  is  tender,  he  is  vehement,  yet  without  con- 
straint or  too  visible  effort ;  he  melts  the  heart,  or 
inflames  it,  with  a  power  which  seems  habitual  and 
familiar  to  him.     We  see  that  in  this  man  there  was 

^  The  two  poems,  Halloween  and  The  Holy  Fair,  must  be  read 
to  understand  the  references.  Any  encyclopaedia  will  explain 
the  Council  of  Trent  and  the  Roman  Jubilee. 


24  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

the  gentleness,  the  trembling  pity  of  a  woman,  with 
the  deep  earnestness,  the  force  and  passionate  ardor 
of  a  hero.  Tears  lie  in  him,  and  consuming  fire ;  as 
lightning  lurks  in  the  drops  of  the  summer  cloud. 
He  has  a  resonance  in  his  bosom  for  every  note  of 
human  feeling;  the  high  and  the  low,  the  sad,  the 
ludicrous,  the  joyful,  are  welcome  in  their  turns  to 
his  "  lightly -moved  and  all-conceiving  spirit."  And 
observe  with  what  a  fierce  prompt  force  he  grasps  his 
subject,  be  it  what  it  may !  How  he  fixes,  as  it  were, 
the  full  image  of  the  matter  in  his  eye ;  full  and  clear 
in  every  lineament;  and  catches  the  real  type  and 
essence  of  it,  amid  a  thousand  accidents  and  super- 
ficial circumstances,  no  one  of  which  misleads  him! 
Is  it  of  reason;  some  truth  to  be  discovered?  No 
sophistry,  no  vain  surface-logic  detains  him;  quick, 
resolute,  unerring,  he  pierces  through  into  the  mar- 
row of  the  question ;  and  speaks  his  verdict  with  an 
emphasis  that  cannot  be  forgotten.  Is  it  of  descrip- 
tion; some  visual  object  to  be  represented?  No  poet 
of  any  age  or  nation  is  more  graphic  than  Burns: 
the  characteristic  features  disclose  themselves  to  him 
at  a  glance;  three  lines  from  his  hand  and  we  have 
a  likeness.  And,  in  that  rough  dialect,  in  that  rude, 
often  awkward  metre,  so  clear  and  definite  a  likeness ! 
It  seems  a  draughtsman  working  with  a  burnt  stick ; 
and  yet  the  burin  of  a  Retzsch  ^  is  not  more  expres- 
sive or  exact. 

Of  ^  this  last  excellence,  the  plainest  and  most  com- 

^  Carlyle  had  little  interest  in  the  fine  arts  for  their  own 
sake ;  perhaps  he  was  attracted  to  Retzsch  by  his  illustrations 
of  Schiller  and  Goethe. 

2  The  passage  beginning  here,  and  extending  through  the 
quotation  on  page  27,  is  not  found  in  the  Edinburgh  Review. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  25 

prehensive  of  all,  being  indeed  the  root  and  founda- 
tion of  everi/  sort  of  talent,  poetical  or  intellectual,  we 
could  produce  innumerable  instances  from  the  writ- 
ings of  Burns.  Take  these  glimpses  of  a  snowstorm 
from  his  "Winter  Night"  (the  italics  are  ours);  — 

When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure, 
Sharp  shivers  thro'  the  leafless  bow'r. 
And  Phcebus  gies  a  short-liv'd  glowr 

Far  south  the  lift, 
Dim-darkening  thro'  the  flaky  shower 

Or  whirling  drift : 

'Ae  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rock'd, 
Poor  labour  sweet  in  sleep  was  lock'd, 
While  burns  wV  snawy  wreeihs  upchok^d 

Wild-eddying  swirl, 
Or  thro'  the  mining  outlet  bock'd  ^ 

Down  headlong  hurl. 

Are  there  not  "descriptive  touches"  here?  The  de- 
scriber  saw  this  thing ;  the  essential  feature  and  true 
likeness  of  every  circumstance  in  it;  saw,  and  not 
with  the  eye  only.  "Poor  labour  locked  in  sweet 
sleep;"  the  dead  stillness  of  man,  unconscious,  van- 
quished, yet  not  unprotected,  while  such  strife  of  the 
material  elements  rages,  and  seems  to  reign  supreme 
in  loneliness:  this  is  of  the  heart  as  well  as  of  the 
eye !  —  Look  also  at  his  image  of  a  thaw,  and  prophe- 
sied fall  of  the  " Auld  Brig:  "  — 

When  heavy,  dark,  continued,  a'-day  rains 

Wi'  deepening  deluges  o'erflo w  the  plains ; 

When  from  the  hills  where  springs  the  brawling  Coil, 

Or  stately  Lugar's  mossy  fountains  hoil, 

Or  where  the  Greenock  winds  his  moorland  course, 

Or  haunted  Garpal  ^  draws  his  feeble  source, 

^  Bock'd,  vomited. 

2  Fabulosus  Hydaspes  !    [Note  by  Carlyle]  see  Horace :  Odes, 
122. 


26  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

Arous'd  by  blust'ring  winds  and  spotting  thowes,^ 
In  mony  a  torrent  down  his  snaw-broo  rowesj  ^ 
While  crashing  ice,  borne  on  the  roaring  speat^ 
Sweeps  dams  and  mills  and  brigs  a'  to  the  gate; 
And  from  Glenbuck  down  to  the  Rottonkey, 
Auld  Ayr  Is  just  one  lengthen'd  tumbling  sea  ; 
Then  down  ye  '11  hurl,  Deil  nor  ye  never  rise  ! 
And  dash  the  gumlie  jaups  ^  up  to  the  pouring  skies. ^ 

The  last  line  is  in  itself  a  Poussin -picture  of  that 
Deluge !  The  welkin  has,  as  it  were,  bent  down  with 
its  weight;  the  "gumlie  jaups"  and  the  "pouring 
skies"  are  mingled  together;  it  is  a  world  of  rain 
and  ruin.  —  In  respect  of  mere  clearness  and  minute 
fidelity,  the  Farmer^s  commendation  of  his  Auld 
Mare  in  plough  or  in  cart,  may  vie  with  Homer's 
Smithy  of  the  Cyclops,  or  yoking  of  Priam's  Char- 
iot.^ Nor  have  we  forgotten  stout  Burn -the -wind '^ 
and  his  brawny  customers,  inspired  by  Scotch  Drink : 
but  it  is  needless  to  multiply  examples.  One  other 
trait  of  a  much  finer  sort  we  select  from  multitudes 
of  such  among  his  "Songs."  It  gives,  in  a  single 
line,  to  the  saddest  feeling  the  saddest  environment 
and  local  habitation :  — 

The  pale  Moon  is  setting  beyond  the  white  wave, 
And  time  is  setting  wV  me,  0;  . 

^  Thaws  that  melt  the  snow  in  spots. 

2  Rolls. 

8  Spate,  torrent. 

■*  Muddy  splashes. 

^  From  The  Brigs  of  Ayr.  It  is  the  fall  of  the  new  brig  that 
is  prophesied  :  a  strange  slip  on  Carlyle's  part. 

**  See  Iliad,  xviii.  and  xxii.  Pope's  translation  may  be  bought 
for  a  few  cents ;  and  is  still  in  many  ways  the  best. 

■^  A  name  for  a  blacksmith!  shortened  to  Burnewin,  in  Scotch 
Drink. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  27 

Farewell,  false  friends  !  false  lover,  farewell ! 
I  '11  nae  mair  trouble  them  nor  thee,  O.^ 

This  clearness  of  sight  we  have  called  the  founda- 
tion of  all  talent;  for  in  fact,  unless  we  see  our  ob- 
ject, how  shall  we  know  how  to  place  or  prize  it,  in 
our  understanding,  our  imagination,  our  affections? 
Yet  it  is  not  in  itself,  perhaps,  a  very  high  excellence ; 
but  capable  of  being  united  indifferently  with  the 
strongest,  or  with  ordinary  power.  Homer  surpasses 
all  men  in  this  quality :  but  strangely  enough,  at  no 
great  distance  below  him  are  Richardson  and  Defoe. 
It  belongs,  in  truth,  to  what  is  called  a  lively  mind; 
and  gives  no  sure  indication  of  the  higher  endowments 
that  may  exist  along  with  it.  In  all  the  three  cases 
we  have  mentioned,  it  is  combined  with  great  garru- 
lity; their  descriptions  are  detailed,  ample  and  lov- 
ingly exact;  Homer's  fire  bursts  through,  from  time 
to  time,  as  if  by  accident;  but  Defoe  and  Richardson 
have  no  fire.  Burns,  again,  is  not  more  distinguished 
by  the  clearness  than  by  the  impetuous  force  of  his 
conceptions.  Of  the  strength,  the  piercing  emphasis 
with  which  he  thought,  his  emphasis  of  expression 
may  give  a  humble  but  the  readiest  proof.  Who- 
ever uttered  sharper  sayings  than  his;  words  more 
memorable,  now  by  their  burning  vehemence,  now  by 
their  cool  vigor  and  laconic  pith?  A  single  phrase 
depicts  a  whole  subject,  a  whole  scene.  We  hear  of 
"  a  gentleman  that  derived  his  patent  of  nobility  direct 

1  These  lines  are  incorrectly  quoted  from  an  Irish  song 
altered  by  Burns,  Open  the  Door  to  Me,  oh  I     They  should  read ; 

•'  The  wan  Moon  is  setting  behind  the  white  wave, 
And  Time  is  setting  with  me,  oh  : 
False  friends,  false  love,  farewell  !  for  mair 
I  '11  ne'er  trouble  them  nor  thee,  oh." 


28  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

from  Almighty  God."  Our  Scottish  forefathers  in 
the  battlefield  struggled  forward  "/"ccZ-ioa^-sAocZ.- "^ 
in  this  one  word  a  full  vision  of  horror  and  carnage, 
perhaps  too  frightfully  accurate  for  Art ! 

In  fact,  one  of  the  leading  features  in  the  mind  of 
Burns  is  this  vigor  of  his  strictly  intellectual  percep- 
tions. A  resolute  force  is  ever  visible  in  his  judg- 
ments, and  in  his  feelings  and  volitions.  Professor 
Stewart  says  of  him,  with  some  surprise i^  "All  the 
faculties  of  Burns 's  mind  were,  as  far  as  I  could 
judge,  equally  vigorous;  and  his  predilection  for 
poetry  was  rather  the  result  of  his  own  enthusiastic 
and  impassioned  temper,  than  of  a  genius  exclusively 
adapted  to  that  species  of  composition.  From  his 
conversation  I  should  have  pronounced  him  to  be 
fitted  to  excel  in  whatever  walk  of  ambition  he  had 
chosen  to  exert  his  abilities."  But  this,  if  we  mis- 
take not,  is  at  all  times  the  very  essence  of  a  truly 
poetical  endowment.  Poetry,  except  in  such  cases  as 
that  of  Keats,  where  the  whole  consists  in  a  weak- 
eyed  maudlin  sensibility,  and  a  certain  vague  random 
tunefulness  of  nature,  is  no  separate  facultj^,  no  organ 
which  can  be  superadded  to  the  rest,  or  disjoined 
from  them;  but  rather  the  result  of  their  general 
harmony  and   completion.^     The  feelings,   the  gifts 

^  To  William  Simpson.     Wat,  wet. 

2  Diigald  Stewart,  professor  of  moral  philosophy  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Edinburgh,  in  a  letter  published  in  the  Life  of  Burns, 
by  Dr.  James  Currie. 

^  In  this  sentence,  as  printed  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  we 
have  certainly  a  trace  of  Jeffrey's  editing  (cf.  above,  p.  7). 
There,  by  the  change  of  weak-eyed  maudlin  into  extreme,  and  of 
random  into  pervading,  the  sneer  is  converted  into  a  compliment. 
Elsewhere  Carlyle  says  of  Keats  :  "  The  kind  of  man  he  was 
gets  ever  more  horrible  to  me.     Force  of  hunger  for  pleasure  of 


ESSAY   ON  BURNS.  29 

that  exist  in  the  Poet  are  those  that  exist,  with  more 
or  less  development,  in  every  human  soul :  the  imagi- 
nation, which  shudders  at  the  Hell  of  Dante,  is  the 
same  faculty,  weaker  in  degree,  which  called  that 
picture  into  being.  How  does  the  Poet  speak  to 
men,  with  power,  but  by  being  still  more  a  man  than 
they?  Shakespeare,  it  has  been  well  observed,  in 
the  planning  and  completing  of  his  tragedies,  has 
shown  an  understanding,  were  it  nothing  more,  which 
might  have  governed  states,  or  indited  a  "Novum 
Organum."  What  Burns 's  force  of  understanding 
may  have  been,  we  have  less  means  of  judging:  it 
had  to  dwell  among  the  humblest  objects ;  never  saw 
Philosophy ;  never  rose,  except  by  natural  effort  and 
for  short  intervals,  into  the  region  of  great  ideas. 
Nevertheless,  sufficient  indication,  if  no  proof  suffi- 
cient, remains  for  us  in  his  works:  we  discern  the 
brawny  movements  of  a  gigantic  though  untutored 
strength;  and  can  understand  how,  in  conversation, 
his  quick  sure  insight  into  men  and  things  may,  as 
much  3,s  aught  else  about  him,  have  amazed  the  best 
thinkers  of  his  time  and  country. 

But,  unless  we  mistake,  the  intellectual  gift  of 
Burns  is  fine  as  well  as  strong.  The  more  delicate 
relations  of  things  could  not  well  have  escaped  his 
eye,  for  they  were  intimately  present  to  his  hearto 
The  logic  of  the  senate  and  the  forum  is  indispensable, 
but  not  all-sufficient ;  nay  perhaps  the  highest  Truth 
is  that  which  will  the  most  certainly  elude  it.     For 

every  kind,  and  want  of  all  other  force.  .  .  .  Such  a  structure 
of  soul,  it  would  once  have  been  very  evident,  was  a  chosen 
« Vessel  of  Hell.'"  (Nichol  :  Life  of  Carlyle,  chap,  v.)  Such 
is  the  absurd  result  to  which  Carlyle  is  led  by  his  view  of  the 
necessity  of  a  moral  aim  in  all  literature. 


30  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

this  logic  works  by  words,  and  "the  highest,"  it  has 
been  said,  "cannot  be  expressed  in  words."  We  are 
not  without  tokens  of  an  openness  for  this  higher 
truth  also,  of  a  keen  though  uncultivated  sense  for 
it,  having  existed  in  Burns.  Mr.  Stewart,  it  will  be 
remembered,  "wonders,"  in  the  passage  above  quoted, 
that  Burns  had  formed  some  distinct  conception  of 
the  "doctrine  of  association."  We  rather  think  that 
far  subtler  things  than  the  doctrine  of  association 
had  from  of  old  been  familiar  to  him.  Here  for 
instance :  — 

"We  know  nothing,"  thus  writes  he,  "or  next  to 
nothing,  of  the  structure  of  our  souls,  so  we  cannot 
account  for  those  seeming  caprices  in  them,  that  one 
should  be  particularly  pleased  with  this  thing,  or 
struck  with  that,  which,  on  minds  of  a  different  cast, 
makes  no  extraordinary  impression.  I  have  some 
favorite  flowers  in  spring,  among  which  are  the  moun- 
tain-daisy, the  harebell,  the  foxglove,  the  wild-brier 
rose,  the  budding  birch,  and  the  hoary  hawthorn,  that 
I  view  and  hang  over  with  particular  delight.  I 
never  hear  the  loud  solitary  whistle  of  the  curlew 
in  a  summer  noon,  or  the  wild  mixing  cadence  of  a 
troop  of  gray  plover  in  an  autumnal  morning,  with- 
out feeling  an  elevation  of  soul  like  the  enthusiasm 
of  devotion  or  poetry.  Tell  me,  my  dear  friend,  to 
what  can  this  be  owing?  Are  we  a  piece  of  machin- 
ery, which,  like  the  ^olian  harp,  passive,  takes  the 
impression  of  the  passing  accident ;  or  do  these  work- 
ings argue  something  'within  us  above  the  trodden 
clod?  I  own  myself  partial  to  such  proofs  of  those 
awful  and  important  realities  :  a  God  that  made 
all  things,   man's   immaterial  and  immortal  nature, 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS,  31 

and  a  world  of  weal  or  woe  beyond   death  and  the 
grave."  ^ 

Force  and  fineness  of  understanding  are  often 
spoken  of  as  something  different  from  general  force 
and  fineness  of  nature,  as  something  partly  indepen- 
dent of  them.  The  necessities  of  language  so  require 
it;  but  in  truth  these  qualities  are  not  distinct  and 
independent :  except  in  special  cases,  and  from  special 
causes,  they  ever  go  together.  A  man  of  strong  un- 
derstanding is  generally  a  man  of  strong  character; 
neither  is  delicacy  in  the  one  kind  often  divided  from 
delicacy  in  the  other.  No  one,  at  all  events,  is  igno- 
rant that  in  the  Poetry  of  Burns  keenness  of  insight 
keeps  pace  with  keenness  of  feeling;  that  his  light 
is  not  more  pervading  than  his  warmth.  He  is  a 
man  of  the  most  impassioned  temper;  with  passions 
not  strong  only,  but  noble,  and  of  the  sort  in  which 
great  virtues  and  great  poems  take  their  rise.  It  is 
reverence,  it  is  love  towards  all  Nature  that  inspires 
him,  that  opens  his  eyes  to  its  beauty,  and  makes 
heart  and  voice  eloquent  in  its  praise.  There  is  a 
true  old  saying,  that  "Love  furthers  knowledge:" 
but  above  all,  it  is  the  living  essence  of  that  know- 
ledge which  makes  poets;  the  first  principle  of  its 
existence,  increase,  activity.  Of  E.'^ns's  fervid  affeo- 
tion,  his  generous  all-embracing  Love,  /re  have  spoken 
already,  as  of  the  grand  distinction  of  his  nature, 
seen  equally  in  word  and  deed,  in  his  Life  and  in  his 
Writings.  It  were  easy  to  multiply  examples.  Not 
man  only,  but  all  that  environs  man  in  the  material 
and  moral  universe,  is  lovely  in  his  sight:  "the  hoary 
hawthorn,"  the  "troop  of  gray  plover,"  the  "solitary 

1  Letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  January  1,  1789.     The  passage  is 
also  quoted  in  Lockhart,  chap.  viii. 


32  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

curlew,"  all  are  dear  to  him;  all  live  in  this  Earth 
along  with  him,  and  to  all  he  is  knit  as  in  mysterious 
brotherhood.  How  touching  is  it,  for  instance,  that, 
amidst  the  gloom  of  personal  misery,  brooding  over 
the  wintry  desolation  without  him  and  within  him, 
he  thinks  of  the  "ourie  cattle"  and  "silly  sheep,"  and 
their  sufferings  in  the  pitiless  storm ! 

I  thought  me  on  the  curie  cattle, 
Or  silly  sheep,  wlia  bide  this  brattle 

O'  wintry  war, 
Or  thro'  the  drift,  deep-lairing,  sprattle,^ 

Beneath  a  scaur. 
Ilk  happing  bird,  wee  helpless  thing, 
That  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee  ? 
Where  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  chittering  wing  ? 

And  close  thy  ee  ?  ^ 

The  tenant  of  the  mean  hut,  with  its  "ragged  roof 
and  chinky  wall,"^  has  a  heart  to  pity  even  these! 
This  is  worth  several  homilies  on  Mercy;  for  it  is 
the  voice  of  Mercy  herself.  Burns,  indeed,  lives  in 
sympathy;  his  soul  rushes  forth  into  all  realms  of 
being;  nothing  that  has  existence  can  be  indifferent 
to  him.  The  very  Devil  he  cannot  hate  with  right 
orthodoxy :  — 

But  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben  ; 
O,  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  and  men'! 
Ye  aiblins  might  —  I  dinua  ken,  — 

Still  hae  a  stake  ; 
I  'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den. 

Even  for  your  sake  !  * 

•'He  is  the  father  of  curses  and  lies,"  said  Dr.  Slop; 

1  Struggle.  ^  Ihid. 

2  A  Winter  Night.  *  Address  to  the  Deil. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  33 

"and  is  cursed  and  damned  already." —  "I  am  sorry 
for  it,"  quoth  my  uncle  Toby!^  —  a  Poet  without 
Love  were  a  physical  and  metaphysical  impossibility. 
But  ^  has  it  not  been  said,  in  contradiction  to  this 
principle,  that  "Indignation  makes  verses  "?  ^  It  has 
been  so  said,  and  is  true  enough :  but  the  contradic- 
tion is  apparent,  not  real.  The  Indignation  which 
makes  verses  is,  properly  speaking,  an  inverted  Love ; 
the  love  of  some  right,  some  worth,  some  goodness, 
belonging  to  ourselves  or  others,  which  has  been  in- 
jured, and  which  this  tempestuous  feeling  issues  forth 
to  defend  and  avenge.  No  selfish  fury  of  heart,  ex- 
isting there  as  a  primary  feeling,  and  without  its 
opposite,  ever  produced  much  Poetry:  otherwise,  we 
suppose,  the  Tiger  were  the  most  musical  of  all  our 
choristers.  Johnson  said,  he  loved  a  good  hater;  by 
which  he  must  have  meant,  not  so  much  one  that 
hated  violently,  as  one  that  hated  wisely ;  hated  base- 
ness from  love  of  nobleness.  However,  in  spite  of 
Johnson's  paradox,  tolerable  enough  for  once  in 
speech,  but  which  need  not  have  been  so  often  adopted 
in  print  since  then,  we  rather  believe  that  good  men 
deal  sparingly  in  hatred,  either  wise  or  unwise :  nay 
that  a  "good"  hater  is  still  a  desideratum  in  this 
world.     The  Devil,  at  least,  who  passes  for  the  chief 

^  The  quotation  is  from  Tristram  Shandy,  vol.  iii.  chap.  xi. 
In  the  Edinburgh  Review  it  is  preceded  by  the  sentence  :  "  He 
did  not  know,  probably,  that  Sterne  had  been  beforehand  with 
him."  As  a  matter  of  fact.  Burns  was  well  acquainted  with 
Sterne;  and  it  is  perhaps  for  that  reason  that  Carlyle  omitted 
the  line  when  this  essay  was  reprinted,  even  though  he  thereby 
made  a  very  abrupt  transition. 

2  The  two  following  paragraphs,  including  the  quotation  from 
Burns,  were  not  in  the  essay  as  printed  in  the  Edinburgh  Review^ 

*  "  Facit  indignatio  versum."  —  Juvenalt  I.  79. 


34  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

and  best  of  that  class,  is  said  to  be  nowise  an  amiable 
character.^ 

Of  the  verses  which  Indignation  makes,  Burns  has 
also  given  us  specimens:  and  among  the  best  that 
were  ever  given.  Who  will  forget  his  "Dweller  in 
yon  Dungeon  dark;"  a  piece  that  might  have  been 
chanted  by  the  Furies  of  .^schylus?  The  secrets  of 
the  infernal  Pit  are  laid  bare;  a  boundless  baleful 
"darkness  visible ;  "  ^  and  streaks  of  hell-fire  quivering 
madly  in  its  black  haggard  bosom  I 

Dweller  in  yon  Dungeon  dark, 
Hangman  of  Creation,  mark  ! 
Who  in  widow's  weeds  appears, 
Laden  with  unhonoured  years, 
Noosing  with  care  a  bursting  purse, 
Baited  with  many  a  deadly  curse  !  ^ 

Why  should  we  speak  of  "Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wal- 
lace bled;"  since  all  know  of  it,  from  the  king  to 
the  meanest  of  his  subjects?  This  dithyrambic  was 
composed  on  horseback;  in  riding  in  the  middle  of 
tempests,  over  the  wildest  Galloway  moor,  in  com- 
pany with  a  Mr.  Syme,  who,  observing  the  poet's 
looks,  forbore  to  speak,  —  judiciously  enough,  for  a 
man  composing  "Bruce's  Address"  might  be  unsafe 
to  trifle  with.  Doubtless  this  stern  hymn  was  singing 
itself,  as  he  formed  it,  through  the  soul  of  Burns;  but 
to  the  external  ear,  it  should  be  sung  with  the  throat 

1  Dr.  Johnson  said  of  his  friend  Dr.  Bathurst  :  "  Dear  Bath- 
urst  was  a  man  to  my  very  heart's  content;  he  hated  a  fool, 
and  he  hated  a  rogue,  and  he  hated  a  Whig.  He  was  a  very 
good  hater."  —  Piqzzi's  Anecdotes  of  Dr.  Johnson.  Carlyle  him- 
self, in  his  scornful  epigrams  at  men  and  institutions  that  seemed 
to  him  false  and  insincere,  is  a  near  approach  to  a  "  good  hater.*' 

2  Cf.  Paradise  Lost,  I.  63. 

®  Ode,  Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  Mrs.  Oswald. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  S5 

of  the  whirlwind.  1  So  long  as  there  is  warm  blood  in 
the  heart  of  Scotchman  or  man,  it  will  move  in  fierce 
thrills  under  this  war-ode ;  the  best,  we  believe,  that 
was  ever  written  by  any  pen. 

Another  wild  stormful  Song,  that  dwells  in  our  ear 
and  mind  with  a  strange  tenacity,  is  "Macpherson's 
Farewell."  Perhaps  there  is  something  in  the  tradi- 
tion itself  that  cooperates.  For  was  not  this  grim 
Celt,  this  shaggy  Northland  Cacus,^  that*  "lived  a 
life  of  sturt  and  strife,  and  died  by  treacherie,"  — 
was  not  he  too  one  of  the  Nimrods  and  Napoleons  of 
the  earth,  in  the  arena  of  his  own  remote  misty  glens^ 
for  want  of  a  clearer  and  wider  one  ?  Nay,  was  there 
not  a  touch  of  grace  given  him  ?  A  fibre  of  love  and 
softness,  of  poetry  itself,  must  have  lived  in  his  sav- 
age heart :  for  he  composed  that  air  the  night  before 
his  execution ;  on  the  wings  of  that  poor  melody  his 
better  soul  would  soar  away  above  oblivion,  pain  and 
all  the  ignominy  and  despair,  which,  like  an  ava- 
lanche, was  hurling  him  to  the  abyss  I  Here  also,  as 
at  Thebes,  and  in  Pelops'  line,^  was  material  Fate 
matched  against  man's  Free-will;  matched  in  bitter- 
est though  obscure  duel;  and  the  ethereal  soul  sank 
not,  even  in  its  blindness,  without  a  cry  which  has 
survived  it.  But  who,  except  Burns,  could  have 
given  words  to  such  a  soul ;  words  that  we  never  lis- 

^  The  authority  for  this  account  is  a  letter  from  Mr.  Syme, 
printed  in  Currie's  Life.  Burns  himself  sent  Scots  wJia  hae  wV 
Wallace  bled  to  Thomson  September  1,  1793,  in  company  with  a 
letter,  in  which  he  says  that  the  song  was  composed  on  an  even- 
ing walk  the  day  before. 

2  See  Virgil,  ^neid,  viii.  185-279. 

*  The  reference  is  to  Milton's  //  Penseroso.  The  struggle  of 
fate  and  man's  free  will  is  the  central  idea  of  the  typical  Greek 
tragedies. 


86  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

ten  to  without  a  strange  liaK-barbarous,  half-poetic/ 
fellow-feeling? 

Sae  rantiugly,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he  ; 
He  play'd  a  spring,  and  danced  it  round, 

Below  the  gallows-tree. 

Under  a  lighter  disguise,  the  same  principle  of 
Love,  which  we  have  recognized  as  the  great  charac- 
teristic of  Burns,  and  of  all  true  poets,  occasionally 
manifests  itself  in  the  shape  of  Humor.  Everywhere, 
indeed,  in  his  sunny  moods,  a  full  buoyant  flood  of 
mirth  rolls  through  the  mind  of  Burns;  he  rises  to 
the  high,  and  stoops  to  the  low,  and  is  brother  and 
playmate  to  all  Nature.  We  speak  not  of  his  bold 
and  often  irresistible  faculty  of  caricature;  for  this 
is  Drollery  rather  than  Humor :  but  a  much  tenderer 
sportfulness  dwells  in  him;  and  comes  forth  here  and 
there,  in  evanescent  and  beautiful  touches;  as  in  his 
"Address  to  the  Mouse,"  or  the  "Farmer's  Mare," 
or  in  his  "Elegy  on  poor  Mailie,"  which  last  may  be 
reckoned  his  happiest  effort  of  this  kind.  In  these 
pieces  there  are  traits  of  a  Humor  as  fine  as  that  of 
Sterne;  ^  yet  altogether  different,  original,  peculiar, 
—  the  Humor  of  Burns. 

Of  the  tenderness,  the  playful  pathos,  and  many 
other  kindred  qualities  of  Burns' s  Poetry,  much  more 
might  be  said;  but  now,  with  these  poor  outlines  of 
a  sketch,  we  must  prepare  to  quit  this  part  of  our 
subject.  To  speak  of  his  individual  Writings,  ade- 
quately and  with  any  detail,  would  lead  us  far  be- 
yond our  limits.     As  already  hinted,  we  can  look  on 

1  Tristram  Shandy  was  one  of  Carlyle's  favorite  books  :  Sterne 
probably  appealed  to  him  by  his  humor  and  kindliness.  Cf .  p. 
33,  above. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  37 

but  few  of  these  pieces  as,  in  strict  critical  language, 
deserving  the  name  of  Poems :  they  are  rhymed  elo- 
quence, rhymed  pathos,  rhymed  sense;  yet  seldom 
essentially  melodious,  aerial,  poetical.  "Tarn  o' 
Shanter"  itself,  which  enjoys  so  high  a  favor,  does 
not  appear  to  us  at  all  decisively  to  come  under  this 
last  category.  It  is  not  so  much  a  poem,  as  a  piece 
of  sparkling  rhetoric ;  the  heart  and  body  of  the  story 
still  lies  hard  and  dead.  He  has  not  gone  back,  much 
less  carried  us  back,  into  that  dark,  earnest,  wonder- 
ing age,  when  the  tradition  was  believed,  and  when 
it  took  its  rise;  he  does  not  attempt,  by  any  new- 
modelling  of  his  supernatural  ware,  to  strike  anew 
that  deep  mysterious  chord  of  human  nature,  which 
once  responded  to  such  things ;  and  which  lives  in  u& 
too,  and  will  forever  live,  though  silent  now,  or  vibrat- 
ing with  far  other  notes,  and  to  far  different  issues. 
Our  German  readers  will  understand  us,  when  we 
say,  that  he  is  not  the  Tieck  but  the  Musaus  of  this 
tale.^  Externally  it  is  all  green  and  living;  yet  look 
closer,  it  is  no  firm  growth,  but  only  ivy  on  a  rock. 
The  piece  does  not  properly  cohere :  the  strange  chasm 
which  yawns  in  our  incredulous  imaginations  between 
the  Ayr  publichouse  and  the  gate  of  Tophet,  is  no- 
where bridged  over,  nay  the  idea  of  such  a  bridge  is 
laughed  at;  and  thus  the  Tragedy  of  the  adventure 
becomes  a  mere  drunken  phantasmagoria,  or  many- 
colored  spectrum  painted  on  ale-vapors,  and  the  Farce 

1  Both  Ludwig  Tieck  (1773-1853)  and  Johann  Karl  August 
Musaus  (1735-1787)  worked  with  materials  drawn  from  popu- 
lar legend.  But  Musaus,  in  his  most  famous  work,  VolkS' 
mdrchen  der  Deutschen  {German  Folk-Tales),  could  not  keep  from 
introducing  his  own  satirical  tone.  Thus  the  book  lacks  the 
simplicity  of  genuine  folk-lore.  Remember  that  Carlyle  bad 
already  published  translations  from  both  these  men. 


188  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

alone  has  any  reality.  We  do  not  say  that  Burns 
should  have  made  much  more  of  this  tradition;  we 
rather  think  that,  for  strictly  poetical  purj)oses,  not 
much  was  to  be  made  of  it.  Neither  are  we  blind 
to  the  deep,  varied,  genial  power  displayed  in  what 
he  has  actually  accomplished;  but  we  find  far  more 
"Shakespearean"  qualities,  as  these  of  "Tam  o' 
Shanter"  have  been  fondly  named,  in  many  of  his 
other  pieces ;  nay  we  incline  to  believe  that  this  latter 
might  have  been  written,  all  but  quite  as  well,  by  a 
man  who,  in  place  of  genius,  had  only  possessed  talent. 
Perhaps  we  may  venture  to  say,  that  the  most 
strictly  poetical  of  all  his  "poems"  is  one  which  does 
not  appear  in  Currie's  Edition;  but  has  been  often 
printed  before  and  since,  under  the  humble  title  of 
"The  Jolly  Beggars."  The  subject  truly  is  among 
the  lowest  in  Nature;  but  it  only  the  more  shows  our 
Poet's  gift  in  raising  it  into  the  domain  of  Art.  To 
our  minds,  this  piece  seems  thoroughly  compacted; 
melted  together,  refined;  and  poured  forth  in  one 
flood  of  true  liquid  harmony.  It  is  light,  airy,  soft 
of  movement;  yet  sharp  and  precise  in  its  details; 
pvery  face  is  a  portrait:  that  raucle  carlin,^  that  wee 
Apollo,  that  Son  of  Mars,  are  Scottish,  yet  ideal; 
the  scene  is  at  once  a  dream,  and  the  very  Ragcastle 
of  "Poosie-Nansie."  2  Farther,  it  seems  in  a  consid- 
erable degree  complete,  a  real  self-supporting  Whole, 
which  is  the  highest  merit  in  a  poem.  The  blanket 
of  the  Night  is  drawn  asunder  for  a  moment ;  in  full, 
ruddy,  flaming  light,  these  rough  tatterdemalions  are 
seen  in  their  boisterous  revel;  for  the  strong  pulse  oi 

^  Fearless  crone. 

*  The  scene  of   The  Jolly  Beggars  was  an  actual  tavern  in 
Blauchline,  kept  by  a  Mrs.  Gibson,  called  "  Poosie-Nansie." 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  39 

Life  vindicates  its  right  to  gladness  even  here ;  and 
when  the  curtain  closes,  we  prolong  the  action,. with- 
out effort;  the  next  day  as  the  last,  our  Caird  and 
our  Balladmonger  are  singing  and  soldiering;  their 
"brats  and  callets  "  are  hawking,  begging,  cheating; 
and  some  other  night,  in  new  combinations,  they  will 
wring  from  Fate  another  hour  of  wassail  and  good 
cheer.  Apart  from  the  universal  sympathy  with  man 
which  this  again  bespeaks  in  Burns,  a  genuine  inspi- 
ration and  no  inconsiderable  technical  talent  are  man- 
ifested here.  There  is  the  fidelity,  humor,  warm  life 
and  accurate  painting  and  grouping  of  some  Teniers,^ 
for  whom  hostlers  and  carousing  peasants  are  not 
without  significance.  It  would  be  strange,  doubtless, 
to  call  this  the  best  of  Burns 's  writings:  we  mean 
to  say  only,  that  it  seems  to  us  the  most  perfect  of 
its  kind,  as  a  piece  of  poetical  composition,  strictly 
so  called.  In  "The  Beggar's  Opera,"  ^  in  the  "Beg- 
gar's Bush,"  ^  as  other  critics  *  have  already  remarked, 
there  is  nothing  which,  in  real  poetic  vigor,  equals 
this  Cantata ;  nothing,  as  we  think,  which  comes 
within  many  degrees  of  it. 

But  by  far  the  most  finished,  complete  and  truly 
inspired  pieces  of  Burns  are,  without  dispute,  to  be 
found  among  his  "Songs."  It  is  here  that,  although 
through  a  small  aperture,  his  light  shines  with  least 
obstruction;  in  its  highest  beauty  and  pure  sunny 
clearness.  The  reason  may  be,  that  Song  is  a  brief 
simple  species  of  composition;  and  requires  nothing 

1  David  Teniers,  the  Younger  (1610-1690). 

2  By  John  Gay  (1685-1732). 

3  By  John  Fletcher  (1579-1625). 

-  In  particular,  Lockhart,  chap.  ix. 


40  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

so  much  for  its  perfection  as  genuine  poetic  feeling, 
genuine  music  of  heart.  Yet  the  Song  has  its  rules 
equally  with  the  Tragedy ;  rules  which  in  most  cases 
are  poorly  fulfilled,  in  many  cases  are  not  so  much  as 
felt.  We  might  write  a  long  essay  on  the  Songs  of 
Burns;  which  we  reckon  by  far  the  best  that  Britain 
has  yet  produced :  for  indeed,  since  the  era  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  we  know  not  that,  by  any  other  hand, 
aught  truly  worth  attention  has  been  accomplished  in 
this  department.  True,  we  have  songs  enough  "by 
persons  of  quality;"  we  have  tawdry,  hollow,  wine- 
bred  madrigals;  many  a  rhymed  speech  "in  the  flow- 
ing and  watery  vein  of  Osorius  the  Portugal  Bishop,"  ^ 
rich  in  sonorous  words,  and,  for  moral,  dashed  per- 
haps, with  some  tint  of  a  sentimental  sensuality;  all 
which  many  persons  cease  not  from  endeavoring  to 
sing ;  though  for  most  part,  we  fear,  the  music  is  but 
from  the  throat  outwards,  or  at  best  from  some  region 
far  enough  short  of  the  Soul ;  not  in  which,  but  in 
a  certain  inane  Limbo  of  the  Fancy,  or  even  in  some 
vaporous  debatable-land  on  the  outskirts  of  the  Ner- 
vous System,  most  of  such  madrigals  and  rhymed 
speeches  seem  to  have  originated. 

With  the  Songs  of  Burns  we  must  not  name  these 
things.     Independently  of  the  clear,  manly,  heartfelt 

1  Jeronymo  Osorio  (1506-1580),  called  "  the  Cicero  of  Por- 
tugal:" "Men  began  to  hant  more  after  words  than  matter; 
more  after  the  choiceness  of  the  phrase,  and  the  round  and 
clean  composition  of  the  sentence,  and  the  sweet  falling  of  the 
<}lauses,  and  the  varying  and  illustration  of  their  works  with 
tropes  and  figures,  than  after  the  weight  of  matter,  worth  of 
subject,  soundness  of  argument,  life  of  invention,  or  depth  of 
judgment.  Then  grew  the  flowing  and  watery  vein  of  Osorius 
the  Portugal  bishop,  to  be  in  price."  —  Bacon  :  Of  the  Advance- 
ment of  Learning i  I.  iv.  2. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  41 

sentiment  that  ever  pervades  his  poetry,  his  Songs 
are  honest  in  another  point  of  view :  in  form,  as  well 
as  in  spirit.  They  do  not  affect  to  be  set  to  music, 
but  they  actually  and  in  themselves  are  music;  they 
have  received  their  life,  and  fashioned  themselves 
together,  in  the  medium  of  Harmony,  as  Venus  rose 
from  the  bosom  of  the  sea.  The  story,  the  feeling,  is 
not  detailed,  but  suggested;  not  said^  or  spouted,  in 
rhetorical  completeness  and  coherence;  but  sung^  in 
fitful  gushes,  in  glowing  hints,  in  fantastic  breaks, 
in  warhlings  not  of  the  voice  only,  but  of  the  whole 
mind.  We  consider  this  to  be  the  essence  of  a  song; 
and  that  no  songs  since  the  little  careless  catches,  and 
as  it  were  drops  of  song,  which  Shakespeare  has  here 
and  there  sprinkled  over  his  Plays,  fulfil  this  condi- 
tion in  nearly  the  same  degree  as  most  of  Burns 's  do. 
Such  grace  and  truth  of  external  movement,  too,  pre- 
supposes in  general  a  corresponding  force  and  truth 
of  sentiment  and  inward  meaning.  The  Songs  of 
Burns  are  not  more  perfect  in  the  former  quality  than 
in  the  latter.  With  what  tenderness  he  sings,  yet 
with  what  vehemence  and  entireness!  There  is  a 
piercing  wail  in  his  sorrow,  the  purest  rapture  in  his 
joy;  he  burns  with  the  sternest  ire,  or  laughs  with 
the  loudest  or  sliest  mirth;  and  yet  he  is  sweet  and 
soft,  "sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  lovers  meet,  and 
soft  as  their  parting  tear."  If  we  further  take  into 
account  the  immense  variety  of  his  subjects;  how, 
from  the  loud  flowing  revel  in  "Willie  brew'd  a  Peck 
o'  Maut,"  to  the  still,  rapt  enthusiasm  of  sadness  of 
"Mary  in  Heaven;"  from  the  glad  kind  greeting  of 
"Auld  Lang  Syne,"  or  the  comic  archness  of  "Dun- 
can Gray,"  to  the  fire-eyed  fury  of  "Scots  wha  hae 
wi'  Wallace  bled,"  he  has  found  a  tone  and  words  for 


42  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

every  mood  of  man's  heart,  —  it  will  seem  a  small 
praise  if  we  rank  him  as  the  first  of  all  our  Song- 
writers ;  for  we  know  not  where  to  find  one  worthy  of 
being  second  to  him. 

It  is  on  his  Songs,  as  we  believe,  that  Burns 's 
chief  influence  as  an  author  will  ultimately  be  found 
to  depend :  nor,  if  our  Fletcher's  ^  aphorism  is  true, 
shall  we  account  this  a  small  influence.  "Let  me 
make  the  songs  of  a  people,"  said  he,  "and  you 
shall  make  its  laws."  Surely,  if  ever  any  Poet  might 
have  equalled  himself  with  Legislators  on  this  ground, 
it  was  Burns.  His  Songs  are  already  part  of  the 
mother-tongue,  not  of  Scotland  only,  but  of  Britain, 
and  of  the  millions  that  in  all  ends  of  the  earth  speak 
a  British  language.  In  hut  and  hall,  as  the  heart 
unfolds  itself  in  many-colored  joy  and  woe  of  exist* 
ence,  the  name^  the  voice  of  that  joy  and  that  woe, 
is  the  name  and  voice  which  Burns  has  given  them. 
Strictly  speaking,  perhaps  no  British  man  has  so 
deeply  affected  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  so  many 
men,  as  this  solitary  and  altogether  private  individ- 
ual, with  means  apparently  the  humblest. 

In  another  point  of  view,  moreover,  we  incline  to 
think  that  Burns 's  influence  may  have  been  consider- 
able :  we  mean,  as  exerted  specially  on  the  Literature 
of  his  country,  at  least  on  the  Literature  of  Scotland. 
Among  the  great  changes  which  British,  particularly 
Scottish  literature,  has  undergone  since  that  period, 
one  of  the  greatest  will  be  found  to  consist  in  its  re- 

^  Andrew  Fletcher,  of  Saltoun  (1655-1716),  in  his  Account  of 
a  Conversation  concerning  a  Right  Regulation  of  Governments  for 
the  Common  Good  of  Mankind,  says  :  "  I  knew  a  very  wise  man  ** 
who  "  believed  if  a  man  were  permitted  to  make  all  the  balladsy 
he  need  not  care  who  shotdd  make  the  laws  of  a  nation.'' 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  43 

markabls  increase  of  nationality.  Even  the  English 
writers  most  popular  in  Burns 's  time  were  little  dis- 
tinguished for  their  literary  patriotism,  in  this  its 
best  sense.  A  certain  attenuated  cosmopolitanism 
had,  in  good  measure,  taken  place  of  the  old  insular 
home-feeling;  literature  was,  as  it  were,  without  any 
local  environment;  was  not  nourished  by  the  affec- 
tions which  spring  from  a  native  soil.  Our  Grays 
and  Glovers  ^  seemed  to  write  almost  as  if  in  vacuo; 
the  thing  written  bears  no  mark  of  place ;  it  is  not 
written  so  much  for  Englishmen,  as  for  men;  or 
rather,  which  is  the  inevitable  result  of  this,  for  cer- 
tain Generalizations  which  philosophy  termed  men. 
Goldsmith  is  an  exception :  not  so  Johnson ;  the  scene 
of  his  "Rambler"  is  little  more  English  than  that  of 
his  "Rasselas." 

But  if  such  was,  in  some  degree,  the  case  with 
England,  it  was,  in  the  highest  degree,  the  case  with 
Scotland.  In  fact  our  Scottish  literature  had,  at  that 
period,  a  very  singular  aspect ;  unexampled,  so  far  as 
we  know,  except  perhaps  at  Geneva,  where  the  same 
state  of  matters  appears  still  to  continue.  For  a  long 
period  after  Scotland  became  British,  we  had  no  liter- 
ature; at  the  date  when  Addison  and  Steele  were 
writing  their  "Spectators,"  our  good  John  Boston 
was  writing,  with  the  noblest  intent,  but  alike  in  defi- 
ance of  grammar  and  philosophy,  his  "  Fourfold  State 

1  Richard  Glover  (1712-1785)  was  once  famous  for  his  epic 
Leonidas.  There  is  an  account  of  him,  with  specimens  of  his 
work,  in  Ward's  English  Poets.  Nothing  can  better  illustrate 
Carlyle's  lack  of  a  judicial  habit  of  mind  than  his  coupling  Glov- 
er's name  with  Gray's.  Read  once  more  the  Elegy  written  in  a 
Country  Churchyard^  and  form  your  own  idea  of  the  correctness 
of  Carlyle's  opinion. 


44  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

of  Man."  ^  Then  came  the  schisms  in  our  National 
Church,  and  the  fiercer  schisms  in  our  Body  Politic : 
Theologic  ink,  and  Jacobite  blood,  with  gall  enough 
in  both  cases,  seemed  to  have  blotted  out  the  intellect 
of  the  country:  however,  it  was  only  obscured,  not 
obliterated.  Lord  Kames  made  nearly  the  first  at- 
tempt at  writing  English;  and  ere  long,  Hume,  Rob- 
ertson, Smith,  and  a  whole  host  of  followers,  attracted 
hither  the  eyes  of  all  Europe.  And  yet  in  this  bril- 
liant resuscitation  of  our  "fervid  genius,"  there  was 
nothing  truly  Scottish,  nothing  indigenous;  except, 
perhaps,  the  natural  impetuosity  of  intellect,  which 
we  sometimes  claim,  and  are  sometimes  upbraided 
with,  as  a  characteristic  of  our  nation.  It  is  curious 
to  remark  that  Scotland,  so  full  of  writers,  had  no 
Scottish  culture,  nor  indeed  any  English;  our  cul- 
ture was  almost  exclusively  French.  It  was  by  study- 
ing Racine  and  Voltaire,  Batteux  and  Boileau,  that 
Kames  had  trained  himself  to  be  a  critic  and  philoso- 
pher; it  was  the  light  of  Montesquieu  and  Mably 
that  guided  Robertson  in  his  political  speculations; 
Quesnay's  lamp  that  kindled  the  lamp  of  Adam 
Smith. ^  Hume  was  too  rich  a  man  to  borrow;  and 
perhaps  he  reacted  on  the  French  more  than  he  was 
acted  on  by  them;  but  neither  had  he  aught  to  do 
with  Scotland;  Edinburgh,  equally  with  La  Fleche,^ 

1  Apparently  Carlyle's  memory  was  treacherous,  like  that  of 
ordinary  mortals  :  man  and  work  are  both  given  incorrectly 
here.  Human  Nature  in  its  Fourfold  State,  by  Thomas  Boston 
(1677-1732),  is  still  a  classic  of  the  Calvinistic  theology. 

2  The  names  are  all  readily  found  in  any  cyclopaedia;  except 
possibly  that  of  Charles  Batteux  (1713-1780),  who,  as  might  be 
inferred  from  the  text,  was  a  French  literary  critic  of  the  same 
school  as  Boileau. 

^  At  one  time  Hume's  residence  in  France,  where  he  composed 
his  Treatise  on  Human  Nature. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  45 

was  but  the  lodging  and  laboratory,  in  which  he  not 
so  much  morally  lived,  as  metaphysically  i?ivestigated. 
Never,  perhaps,  was  there  a  class  of  writers  so  clear 
and  well-ordered,  yet  so  totally  destitute,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, of  any  patriotic  affection,  nay  of  any  human 
affection  whatever.  The  French  wits  of  the  period 
were  as  unpatriotic :  but  their  general  deficiency  in 
moral  principle,  not  to  say  their  avowed  sensuality 
and  unbelief  in  all  virtue,  strictly  so  called,  render 
this  accountable  enough.  We  hope  there  is  a  patri- 
otism founded  on  something  better  than  prejudice; 
that  our  country  may  be  dear  to  us,  without  injury 
to  our  philosophy;  that  in  loving  and  justly  prizing 
all  other  lands,  we  may  prize  justly,  and  yet  love 
before  all  others,  our  own  stern  Motherland,  and  the 
venerable  Structure  of  social  and  moral  Life,  which 
Mind  has  through  long  ages  been  building  up  for  us 
there.  Surely  there  is  nourishment  for  the  better 
part  of  man's  heart  in  all  this:  surely  the  roots,  that 
have  fixed  themselves  in  the  very  core  of  man's  being, 
may  be  so  cultivated  as  to  grow  up  not  into  briers, 
but  into  roses,  in  the  field  of  his  life !  Our  Scottish 
sages  have  no  such  propensities;  the  field  of  their 
life  shows  neither  briers  nor  roses;  but  only  a  flat, 
continuous  thrashing  -  floor  for  Logic,  whereon  all 
questions,  from  the  "Doctrine  of  Rent"  to  the  "Nat- 
ural History  of  Eeligion,"  are  thrashed  and  sifted 
with  the  same  mechanical  impartiality !  ^ 

With  Sir  Walter  Scott  at  the  head  of  our  litera- 

Iture,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  much  of  this  evil  is 
;  past,  or  rapidly  passing  away :  our  chief  literary  men, 
'  ^  Chapter  xi.  of  Book  I.  of  Adam  Smith's  [Vealth  of  Nations 
has  the  title  Of  the  Rent  of  Land.  The  Natural  History  of  Re' 
ugion  is  by  Hume. 


46  THOMAS   CARLYLE, 

whatever  other  faults  they  may  have,  no  longer  live 
among  us  like  a  French  Colony,  or  some  knot  of 
Propaganda  Missionaries ;  but  like  natural-born  sub- 
jects of  the  soil,  partaking  and  sympathizing  in  all 
our  attachments,  humors,  and  habits.  Our  literature 
no  longer  grows  in  water  but  in  mould,  and  with  the 
true  racy  virtues  of  the  soil  and  climate.  How  much 
of  this  change  may  be  due  to  Burns,  or  to  any  other 
individual,  it  might  be  difficult  to  estimate.^  Direct 
literary  imitation  of  Burns  was  not  to  be  looked  for. 
But  his  example,  in  the  fearless  adoption  of  domestic 
subjects,  could  not  but  operate  from  afar;  and  cer- 
tainly in  no  heart  did  the  love  of  country  ever  burn 
with  a  warmer  glow  than  in  that  of  Burns :  "  a  tide 
of  Scottish  prejudice,"  2  as  he  modestly  calls  this  deep 
and  generous  feeling,  "had  been  poured  along  his 
veins;  and  he  felt  that  it  would  boil  there  tiU  the 
flood-gates  shut  in  eternal  rest."  It  seemed  to  him, 
as  if  he  could  do  so  little  for  his  country,  and  yet 
would  so  gladly  have  done  all.  One  small  province 
stood  open  for  him,  —  that  of  Scottish  Song ;  and 
how  eagerly  he  entered  on  it,  how  devotedly  he  la- 
bored there !  In  his  toilsome  journeyings,  this  object 
never  quits  him;  it  is  the  little  happy-valley  of  his 
careworn  heart.     In  the  gloom  of  his  own  affliction, 

1  In  spite  of  the  example  of  Burns,  the  publisher  of  Waverley 
hesitated  for  some  time  to  accept  the  manuscript,  on  account 
of  the  Scotch  dialect  interwoven  in  it.  Now,  on  the  contrary,  a 
local  dialect  seems  a  commendation  to  a  work  of  fiction. 

^  Burns,  in  his  autobiographical  letter  to  Dr.  Moore  (August 
2,  1787),  says,  in  reference  to  The  History  of  Sir  William  Wal- 
lace, one  of  his  first  books  :  "  The  story  of  Wallace  poured  a 
Scotch  prejudice  in  my  veins,  which  will  boil  along  there  till  the 
flood-gates  of  life  shut  in  eternal  rest."  The  reader  will  by  this 
time  have  noticed  Carlyle's  carelessness  about  small  points. 


I 


ESSAY   ON  BURNS.  47 

he  eagerly  searches  after  some  lonely  brother  of  the 
muse,  and  rejoices  to  snatch  one  other  name  from  the 
oblivion  that  was  covering  it !  ^  These  were  early 
feelings,  and  they  abode  with  him  to  the  end :  — 

...  A  wish  (I  mind  its  power), 
A  wish,  that  to  my  latest  hour 

Will  strongly  heave  my  breast, — 
That  I,  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake. 
Some  useful  plan  or  book  could  make. 

Or  sing  a  sang  at  least. 

The  rough  bur  Thistle  spreading  wide 

Amang  the  bearded  bear, 
I  turn'd  my  weeding-clips  aside. 

And  spared  the  symbol  dear.^ 

But  to  leave  the  mere  literary  character  of  Burns, 
which  has  already  detained  us  too  long.  Far  more 
interesting  than  any  of  his  written  works,  as  it  ap- 
pears to  us,  are  his  acted  ones:  the  Life  he  willed 
and  was  fated  to  lead  among  his  fellow-men.  These 
Poems  are  but  like  little  rhymed  fragments  scattered 
here  and  there  in  the  grand  unrhymed  Romance  of 
his  earthly  existence ;  and  it  is  only  when  intercalated 
in  this  at  their  proper  places,  that  they  attain  their 
full  measure  of  significance.  And  this  too,  alas! 
was  but  a  fragment !  The  plan  of  a  mighty  edifice 
had  been  sketched;  some  columns,  porticos,  firm 
masses  of  building,  stand  completed;  the  rest  more 
or  less  clearly  indicated;  with  many  a  far-stretching 

"  ^  This  may  refer  to  Burns's  poetical  epistles  to  David  Sillar 
and  John  Lapraik,  obscure  poets  of  his  own  time;  or,  more 
probably,  to  his  erecting  a  memorial,  at  his  own  expense,  over 
the  neglected  grave  of  Fergusson. 

2  Answer  to  Verses  addressed  to  the  Poet  hy  the  Guidvnfe  of 
Wauchope  House. 


48  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

tendency,  which  only  studious  and  friendly  eyes  can 
now  trace  towards  the  purposed  termination.  For 
the  work  is  broken  off  in  the  middle,  almost  in  the 
beginning;  and  rises  among  us,  beautiful  and  sad,  at 
once  unfinished  and  a  ruin !  If  charitable  judgment 
was  necessary  in  estimating  his  Poems,  and  justice 
required  that  the  aim  and  the  manifest  power  to  ful- 
fil it  must  often  be  accepted  for  the  fulfilment ;  much 
more  is  this  the  case  in  regard  to  his  Life,  the  sum 
and  result  of  all  his  endeavors,  where  his  difficulties 
came  upon  him  not  in  detail  only,  but  in  mass ;  and 
so  much  has  been  left  unaccomplished,  nay  was  mis- 
taken, and  altogether  marred. 

Properly  speaking,  there  is  but  one  era  in  the  life 
of  Burns,  and  that  the  earliest.  We  have  not  youth 
and  manhood,  but  only  youth:  for,  to  the  end,  we 
discern  no  decisive  change  in  the  complexion  of  his 
character;  in  his  thirty-seventh  year,  he  is  still,  as  it 
were,  in  youth.  With  all  that  resoluteness  of  judg- 
ment, that  penetrating  insight,  and  singular  maturity 
of  intellectual  power,  exhibited  in  his  writings,  he 
never  attains  to  any  clearness  regarding  himself;  to 
the  last,  he  never  ascertains  his  peculiar  aim,  even 
with  such  distinctness  as  is  common  among  ordinary 
men;  and  therefore  never  can  .pursue  it  with  that 
singleness  of  will  which  insures  success  and  some  con- 
tentment to  such  men.^  To  the  last,  he  wavers  be- 
tween two  purposes:  glorying  in  his  talent,  like  a 
true  poet,  he  yet  cannot  consent  to  make  this  his  chief 
and  sole  glory,  and  to  follow  it  as  the  one  thing  need- 
ful, through  poverty  or  riches,  through  good  or  evil 

^  Burns  himself  says  of  his  early  days,  in  his  autobiographical 
letter  to  Dr.  Moore  •.  "  The  great  misfortune  of  my  life  was 
never  to  have  an  aim." 


ESSAY   ON  BURNS.  49 

report.  1  Another  far  meaner  ambition  still  cleaves  to 
him;  he  must  dream  and  struggle  about  a  certain 
"Rock  of  Independence;"  which,  natural  and  even 
admirable  as  it  might  be,  was  still  but  a  warring  with 
the  world,  on  the  comparatively  insignificant  ground 
of  his  being  more  completely  or  less  completely  sup- 
plied with  money  than  others;  of  his  standing  at  a 
higher  or  at  a  lower  altitude  in  general  estimation 
than  others.  For  the  world  still  appears  to  him,  as 
to  the  young,  in  borrowed  colors ;  he  expects  from  it 
what  it  cannot  give  to  any  man ;  seeks  for  content- 
ment, not  within  himself,  in  action  and  wise  effort, 
but  from  without,  in  the  kindness  of  circumstances, 
in  love,  friendship,  honor,  pecuniary  ease.  He  would 
be  happy,  not  actively  and  in  himself,  but  passively 
and  from  some  ideal  cornucopia  of  Enjoyments,  not 
earned  by  his  own  labor,  but  showered  on  him  by  the 
beneficence  of  Destiny.  Thus,  like  a  young  man,  he 
cannot  gird  himself  up  for  any  worthy  well-calculated 
goal,  but  swerves  to  and  fro,  between  passionate  hope 
and    remorseful    disappointment:    rushing    onwards 

^  Perhaps  Carlyle  is  misled  in  his  estimate  of  Burns  by  his 
own  high  conception  of  the  vocation  of  the  man  of  letters.  The 
profession  of  literature  is  hardly  older  than  our  own  century  ; 
Dr.  Johnson  is  really  the  first  example  of  it.  For  a  man,  un- 
supported by  a  patron,  to  make  poetry  his  means  of  subsistence, 
was  almost  unknown  in  the  eighteenth  century.  Burns  was  too 
proud  to  depend  on  a  patron,  and  his  refusal  to  accept  money  for 
his  contributions  to  Johnson's  Museum  and  Thomson's  Scottish 
Ai7'S  was  only  in  accord  with  the  ideas  of  his  time;  besides,  he 
feared  that  such  a  proceeding  would  injure  his  spontaneity.  To 
receive  pay  for  a  volume  of  poems,  originally  written  without 
reference  to  publication,  was  quite  a  different  matter. 

Carlyle,  in  his  lecture  on  The  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters,  in  He- 
roes and  Hero -Worship,  develops  his  own  point  of  view  more 
fully. 


50  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

with  a  deep  tempestuous  force,  he  surmounts  or 
breaks  asunder  many  a  barrier ;  travels,  nay  advances 
far,  but  advancing  only  under  uncertain  guidance,  is 
ever  and  anon  turned  from  his  path ;  and  to  the  last 
cannot  reach  the  only  true  happiness  of  a  man,  that 
of  clear  decided  Activity  in  the  sphere  for  which,  by 
nature  and  circumstances,  he  has  been  fitted  and  ap- 
pointed. 

We  do  not  say  these  things  in  dispraise  of  Burns ; 
nay,  perhaps,  they  but  interest  us  the  more  in  his 
favor.  This  blessing  is  not  given  soonest  to  the  best; 
but  rather,  it  is  often  the  greatest  minds  that  are 
latest  in  obtaining  it;  for  where  most  is  to  be  devel- 
oped, most  time  may  be  required  to  develop  it.  A 
complex  condition  had  been  assigned  him  from  with- 
out; as  complex  a  condition  from  within:  no  "pre- 
established  harmony"  existed  between  the  clay  soil 
of  Mossgiel  and  the  empyrean  soul  of  Robert  Burns ; 
it  was  not  wonderful  that  the  adjustment  between 
them  should  have  been  long  postponed,  and  his  arm 
long  cumbered,  and  his  sight  confused,  in  so  vast  and 
discordant  an  economy  as  he  had  been  appointed 
steward  over.  Byron  was,  at  his  death,  but  a  year 
younger  than  Burns;  and  through  life,  as  it  might 
have  appeared,  far  more  simply  situated :  yet  in  him 
too  we  can  trace  no  such  adjustment,  no  such  moral 
manhood ;  but  at  best,  and  only  a  little  before  his 
end,  the  beginning  of  what  seemed  such. 

By  much  the  most  striking  incident  in  Burns 's 
Life  is  his  journey  to  Edinburgh;  but  perhaps  a  still 
more  important  one  is  his  residence  at  Irvine  so  early 
as  in  his  twenty-third  year.  Hitherto  his"  life  had  been 
poor  and  toilworn;  but  otherwise  not  ungenial,  and, 
with  all  its  distresses,  by  no  means  unhappy.     In  his 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  51 

parentage,  deducting  outward  circumstances,  he  had 
every  reason  to  reckon  himself  fortunate.  His  father 
was  a  man  of  thoughtful,  intense,  earnest  character, 
as  the  best  of  our  peasants  are ;  valuing  knowledge, 
possessing  some,  and,  what  is  far  better  and  rarer.^ 
openminded  for  more:  a  man  with  a  keen  insight 
and  devout  heart;  reverent  towards  God,  friendly 
therefore,  at  once,  and  fearless  towards  all  that  God 
has  made :  in  one  word,  though  but  a  hard-handed 
peasant,  a  complete  and  fully  unfolded  Man.  Such  a 
father  is  seldom  found  in  any  rank  in  society;  and 
was  worth  descending  far  in  society  to  seek.^  Unfor- 
tunately he  was  very  poor ;  had  he  been  even  a  little 
richer,  almost  never  so  little,  the  whole  might  have 
issued  far  otherwise.^  Mighty  events  turn  on  a  straw ; 
the  crossing  of  a  brook  decides  the  conquest  of  the 
world.  Had  this  William  Burns' s  small  seven  acres 
of  nursery -ground  anywise  prospered,  the  boy  Robert 
had  been  sent  to  school;  had  struggled  forward,  as 
so  many  weaker  men  do,  to  some  university;  come 
forth  not  as  a  rustic  wonder,  but  as  a  regular  well- 
trained  intellectual  workman,  and  changed  the  whole 
course  of  British  Literature,  —  for  it  lay  in  him  to 
have  done  this !  ^  But  the  nursery  did  not  prosper ; 
poverty  sank  his  whole  family  below  the  help  of  even 
our  cheap  school-system:  Burns  remained  a  hard- 
worked  ploughboy,  and  British  literature  took  its 
own  course.  Nevertheless,  even  in  this  rugged  scene 
there  is  much  to  nourish  him.     If  he  drudges,  it  is 

^  Burns  himself  says  of  his  father :  "  I  have  met  with  few 
who  understood  Men,  their  manners  and  their  ways,  equal  to 
him." 

2  These  words  seem  like  a  prophecy  of  Carlyle's  own  career, 
which  was  just  beginning  when  this  essay  was  written.  > 


52  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

with  his  brother,  and  for  his  father  and  mother,  whom 
he  loves,  and  would  fain  shield  from  want.  Wis- 
dom is  not  banished  from  their  poor  hearth,  nor  the 
balm  of  natural  feeling :  the  solemn  words,  "Let  us 
worship  God,"  are  heard  there  from  a  "priest-like 
father;  "  ^  if  threatenings  of  unjust  men  throw  mother 
and  children  into  tears,  these  are  tears  not  of  grief 
only,  but  of  holiest  affection;  every  heart  in  that 
humble  group  feels  itself  the  closer  knit  to  every 
other ;  in  their  hard  warfare  they  are  there  together, 
a  "little  band  of  brethren."  Neither  are  such  tears, 
and  the  deep  beauty  that  dwells  in  them,  their  only 
portion.  Light  visits  the  hearts  as  it  does  the  eyes 
of  all  living :  there  is  a  force,  too,  in  this  youth,  that 
enables  him  to  trample  on  misforl^une ;  nay  to  bind  it 
under  his  feet  to  make  him  sport.  For  a  bold,  warm, 
buoyant  humor  of  character  has  been  given  him ;  and 
so  the  thick-coming  shapes  of  evil  are  welcomed  with 
a  gay,  friendly  irony,  and  in  their  closest  pressure  he 
bates  no  jot  of  heart  or  hope.  Vague  yearnings  of 
ambition  fail  not,  as  he  grows  up;  dreamy  fancies 
hang  like  cloud-cities  around  him;  the  curtain  of 
Existence  is  slowly  rising,  in  many-colored  splendor 
and  gloom :  and  the  auroral  light  of  first  love  is  gild- 
ing his  horizon,  and  the  music  of  song  is  on  his  path; 
and  so  he  walks 

...    "in  glory  and  in  joy, 
Behind  his  plough,  upon  the  mountain  side."  ^ 

We  ourselves  know,  from  the  best  evidence,  that 
up  to  this  date  Burns  was  happy;  nay  that  he  was 

•    1  See  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night. 

2  Wordswortli  :  Resolution  and  Independence  (1807  edition). 
Our  editions  read  :  "  Following  his  plough,  along  the  mountain 
side."     The  reference  in  the  poem  is  to  Burns. 


( 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  53 

the  gayest,  brightest,  most  fantastic,  fascinating  being 
to  be  found  in  the  world;  more  so  even  than  he  ever 
afterwards  appeared.^  But  now,  at  thi^  early  age,  he 
quits  the  paternal  roof;  goes  forth  into  looser,  louder, 
more  exciting  society;  and  becomes  initiated  in  those 
dissipations,  those  vices,  which  a  certain  class  of  phi- 
losophers have  asserted  to  be  a  natural  preparative 
for  entering  on  active  life:  a  kind  of  mud-bath,  in 
which  the  youth  is,  as  it  were,  necessitated  to  steep, 
and,  we  suppose,  cleanse  himself,  before  the  real  toga 
of  Manhood  can  be  laid  on  him.  We  shall  not  dis- 
pute much  with  this  class  of  philosophers;  we  hope 
they  are  mistaken:  for  Sin  and  Remorse  so  easily 
beset  us  at  all  stages  of  life,  and  are  always  such  in- 
different company,  that  it  seems  hard  we  should,  at 
any  stage,  be  forced  and  fated  not  onty  to  meet  but 
to  yield  to  them,  and  even  serve  for  a  term  in  their 
leprous  armada.  We  hope  it  is  not  so.  Clear  we 
are,  at  all  events,  it  cannot  be  the  training  one  re- 
ceives in  this  Devil's  service,  but  only  our  determin- 
ing to  desert  from  it,  that  fits  us  for  true  manly 
Action.  We  become  men,  not  after  we  have  been 
dissipated,  and  disappointed  in  the  chase  of  false 
pleasure ;  but  after  we  have  ascertained,  in  any  way, 
what  impassable  barriers  hem  us  in  through  this  life; 
how  mad  it  is  to  hope  for  contentment  to  our  infinite 
soul  from  the  gifts  of  this  extremely  finite  world; 

^  Apparently  the  "  best  evidence  "  is  conflicting.  Burns,  in 
his  autobiographical  letter  to  Dr.  Moore,  says  of  himself  as  a 
boy  :  "  I  was,  perhaps,  the  most  ungainly,  awkward  being  in  the 
parish."  And  Murdock,  Burns's  schoolmaster,  in  a  letter  printed 
in  Carrie's  Life  and  reproduced  in  Lockhart's,  says  :  "Robert's 
ear  was  remarkably  dull,  and  his  voice  untunable.  .  .  .  Robert's 
countenance  was  generally  grave  and  expressive  of  a  serious, 
eontemplative,  and  thoughtful  mind." 


54  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

that  a  man  must  be  sufficient  for  himself;  and  that 
for  suffering  and  enduring  there  is  no  remedy  but 
striving  and  doing.  Manhood  begins  when  we  have 
m  any  way  made  truce  with  necessity;  begins  even 
when  we  have  surrendered  to  necessity,  as  the  most 
part  only  do;  but  begins  joyfully  and  hopefully  only 
when  we  have  reconciled  ourselves  to  Necessity;  and 
thus,  in  reality,  triumphed  over  it,  and  felt  that  in 
Necessity  we  are  free.  Surely  such  lessons  as  this 
last,  which,  in  one  shape  or  other,  is  the  grand  lesson 
for  every  mortal  man,  are  better  learned  from  the 
lips  of  a  devout  mother,  in  the  looks  and  actions  of 
a  devout  father,  while  the  heart  is  yet  soft  and  pliant, 
than  in  collision  with  the  sharp  adamant  of  Fate, 
attracting  us  to  shipwreck  us,  when  the  heart  is 
grown  hard,  and  may  be  broken  before  it  will  become 
contrite.  Had  Burns  continued  to  learn  this,  as  he 
was  already  learning  it,  in  his  father's  cottage,  he 
would  have  learned  it  fully,  which  he  never  did;  and 
been  saved  many  a  lasting  aberration,  many  a  bitter 
hour  and  year  of  remorseful  sorrow. 

It  seems  to  us  another  circumstance  of  fatal  import 
in  Burns 's  history,  that  at  this  time  too  he  became 
involved  in  the  religious  quarrels  of  his  district;  that 
he  was  enlisted  and  feasted,  as  the  fighting  man  of 
the  New-Light  Priesthood,  in  their  highly  unprofit- 
able warfare.  At  the  tables  of  these  freeminded 
clergy  he  learned  much  more  than  was  needful  for 
him.  Such  liberal  ridicule  of  fanaticism  awakened  in 
his  mind  scruples  about  Religion  itself;  and  a  whole 
world  of  Doubts,  which  it  required  quite  another  set 
of  conjurers  than  these  men  to  exorcise.  We  do  not 
say  that  such  an  intellect  as  his  could  have  escaped 
similar  doubts  at  some  period  of  his  history;  or  even 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  55 

that  he  could,  at  a  later  period,  have  come  through 
them  altogether  victorious  and  unharmed:  but  it 
seems  peculiarly  unfortunate  that  this  time,  above  all 
others,  should  have  been  fixed  for  the  encounter. 
For  now,  with  principles  assailed  by  evil  example 
from  without,  by  "passions  raging  like  demons  "  ^  from 
within,  he  had  little  need  of  sceptical  misgivings  to 
whisper  treason  in  the  heat  of  the  battle,  or  to  cut 
off  his  retreat  if  he  were  already  defeated.  He  loses 
his  feeling  of  innocence;  his  mind  is  at  variance  with 
itself;  the  old  divinity  no  longer  presides  there;  but 
wild  Desires  and  wild  Repentance  alternately  oppress 
him.  Ere  long,  too,  he  has  committed  himself  before 
the  world;  his  character  for  sobriety,  dear  to  a  Scot- 
tish peasant  as  few  corrupted  worldlings  can  even  con- 
ceive, is  destroyed  in  the  eyes  of  men;  and  his  only 
refuge  consists  in  trying  to  disbelieve  his  guiltiness, 
and  is  but  a  refuge  of  lies.  The  blackest  desperation 
now  gathers  over  him,  broken  only  by  red  lightnings 
of  remorse.  The  whole  fabric  of  his  life  is  blasted 
asunder;  for  now  not  only  his  character,  but  his  per- 
sonal liberty  is  to  be  lost ;  men  and  Fortune  are  leagued 
for  his  hurt;  "hungry  Kuin  has  him  in  the  wind." 
He  sees  no  escape  but  the  saddest  of  all :  exile  from 
his  loved  country,  to  a  country  in  every  sense  inhos- 
pitable and  abhorrent  to  him.  While  the  "gloomy 
night  is  gathering  fast,"^  in  mental  storm  and  soli- 
tude, as  well  as  in  physical,  he  sings  his  wild  farewell 
to  Scotland:  — 

Farewell,  my  friends  ;  farewell,  my  foes  ! 
My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those  : 

^  The  phrases  are  drawn  from  Burns's  letter  to  Dr.  Moore 


66  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare  ; 
Adieu,  my  native  banks  of  Ayr  !  ^ 

Light  breaks  suddenly  in  on  him  in  floods;  but 
still  a  false  transitory  light,  and  no  real  sunshine. 
He  is  invited  to  Edinburgh ;  hastens  thither  with  an- 
ticipating heart ;  is  welcomed  as  in  a  triumph,  and  with 
universal  blandishment  and  acclamation ;  whatever  is 
wisest,  whatever  is  greatest  or  loveliest  there,  gathers 
round  him,  to  gaze  on  his  face,  to  show  him  honor, 
sympathy,  affection.  Burns 's  appearance  among  the 
sages  and  nobles  of  Edinburgh  must  be  regarded  as 
one  of  the  most  singular  phenomena  in  modern  Lit- 
erature; almost  like  the  appearance  of  some  Napo- 
leon among  the  crowned  sovereigns  of  modern  Pol- 
itics. For  it  is  nowise  as  "a  mockery  king,"^  set 
there  by  favor,  transiently  and  for  a  purpose,  that 
he  will  let  himself  be  treated,  still  less  is  he  a  mad 
Rienzi,  whose  sudden  elevation  turns  his  too  weak 
head:  but  he  stands  there  on  his  Own  basis;  cool, 
unastonished,  holding  his  equal  rank  from  Nature 
herself;  putting  forth  no  claim  which  there  is  not 
strength  in  him,  as  well  as  about  him  to  vindicate. 
Mr.  Lockhart  has  some  forcible  observations  on  this 
point :  — 

"It  needs  no  effort  of  imagination,"  says  he,  "to 
conceive  what  the  sensations  of   an    isolated  set  of 

^  Farewell  Song  to  the  Banks  of  Ayr.  The  last  line  should 
read  :  — 

Farewell,  the  bonie  banks  of  Ayr. 
2  Shakespeare,  Richard  II.  iv.  1.  Carlyle  was  a  man  of  enor- 
mous reading,  and  no  one  can  hope  to  recognize  all  his  allusions. 
But  the  two  books  to  which  he,  like  most  of  the  great  writers  of 
modern  England,  refers  most  frequently,  are  within  the  reach 
of  every  one  :  they  are  the  Bible  and  Shakespeare. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  5T 

scholars  (almost  all  either  clergymen  or  professors) 
must  have  been  in  the  presence  of  this  big-boned, 
black-browed,  brawny  stranger,  with  his  great  flash- 
ing eyes,  who,  having  forced  his  way  among  them 
from  the  plough-tail  at  a  single  stride,  manifested  in 
the  whole  strain  of  his  bearing  and  conversation  a 
most  thorough  conviction,  that  in  the  society  of  the 
most  eminent  men  of  his  nation  he  was  exactly  where 
he  was  entitled  to  be;  hardly  deigned  to  flatter  them 
by  exhibiting  even  an  occasional  symptom  of  being 
flattered  by  their  notice;  by  turns  calmly  measured 
himself  against  the  most  cultivated  understandings 
of  his  time  in  discussion;  overpowered  the  hon-mots 
of  the  most  celebrated  convivialists  by  broad  floods  of 
merriment,  impregnated  with  all  the  burning  life  of 
genius;  astounded  bosoms  habitually  enveloped  in  the 
thrice  -  piled  folds  of  social  reserve,  by  compelling 
them  to  tremble,  —  nay  to  tremble  visibly,  —  beneath 
the  fearless  touch  of  natural  pathos;  and  all  this  with- 
out indicating  the  smallest  willingness  to  be  ranked 
among  those  professional  ministers  of  excitement, 
who  are  content  to  be  paid  in  money  and  smiles  for 
doing  what  the  spectators  and  auditors  would  be 
ashamed  of  doing  in  their  own  persons,  even  if  they 
had  the  power  of  doing  it;  and  last,  and  probably 
worst  of  all,  who  was  known  to  be  in  the  habit  of 
enlivening  societies  which  they  would  have  scorned 
to  approach,  still  more  frequently  than  their  own, 
with  eloquence  no  less  magnificent;  with  wit,  in  all 
likelihood  still  more  daring;  often  enough,  as  the 
superiors  whom  he  fronted  without  alarm  might  have 
guessed  from  the  beginning,  and  had  ere  long  no  oc- 
casion to  guess,  with  wit  pointed  at  themselves."  ^ 
^  Lockhart,  chap.  v. 


58  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

The  farther  we  remove  from  this  scene,  the  more 
singular  will  it  seem  to  us:  details  of  the  exterior 
aspect  of  it  are  already  full  of  interest.  Most  readers 
recollect  Mr.  Walker's  personal  interviews  with  Burns 
as  among  the  best  passages  of  his  Narrative :  a  time 
will  come  when  this  reminiscence  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's, 
slight  though  it  is,  will  also  be  precious :  — 

"As  for  Burns,"  writes  Sir  Walter,  "I  may  truly 
say,  Virgilium  vidi  tantum,^  I  was  a  lad  of  fifteen  in 
1786-87,  when  he  came  first  to  Edinburgh,  but  had 
sense  and  feeling  enough  to  be  much  interested  in  his 
poetry,  and  would  have  given  the  world  to  know 
him :  but  I  had  very  little  acquaintance  with  any  lit- 
erary people,  and  still  less  with  the  gentry  of  the  west 
country,  the  two  sets  that  he  most  frequented.  Mr. 
Thomas  Grierson  was  at  that  time  a  clerk  of  my 
father's.  He  knew  Burns,  and  promised  to  ask  him 
to  his  lodgings  to  dinner;  but  had  no  opportunity  to 
keep  his  word;  otherwise  I  might  have  seen  more  of 
this  distinguished  man.  As  it  was,  I  saw  him  one 
day  at  the  late  venerable  Professor  Ferguson's,^  where 
there  were  several  gentlemen  of  literary  reputation, 
among  whom  I  remember  the  celebrated  Mr.  Dugald 
Stewart.  Of  course,  we  youngsters  sat  silent,  looked 
and  listened.  The  only  thing  I  remember  which  was 
remarkable  in  Burns 's  manner,  was  the  effect  pro- 
duced upon  him  by  a  print  of  Bunbury's,^  represent- 
ing a  soldier  lying  dead  on  the  snow,  his  dog  sitting 
in  misery  on  one  side,  —  on  the  other,   his  widow, 

1  Ovid,  Tristia,  IV.  x.  51. 

^  Adam  Ferguson  (1723-1816),  professor  of  philosophy  at 
Edinburgh  University.     He  was  succeeded  by  Dugald  Stewart. 

^  Henry  William  Bunbury  (1750-1811)  was  an  amateur 
artist  and  caricaturist  of  some  note. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  59 

with  a  child  in  her  arms.     These  lines  were  written 
beneath :  — 

*  Cold  on  Canadian  hills,  or  Minden's  plain, 
Perhaps  that  mother  wept  her  soldier  slain  ; 
Bent  o'er  her  babe,  her  eye  dissolved  in  dew, 
The  big  drops  mingling  with  the  milk  he  drew, 
Gave  the  sad  presage  of  his  future  years, 
The  child  of  misery  baptised  in  tears.' 

"Burns  seemed  much  affected  by  the  print,  or 
rather  by  the  ideas  which  it  suggested  to  his  mind. 
He  actually  shed  tears.  He  asked  whose  the  lines 
were;  and  it  chanced  that  nobody  but  myself  remem- 
bered that  they  occur  in  a  half-forgotten  poem  of 
Langhorne's  called  by  the  unpromising  title  of  '  The 
Justice  of  Peace. '  ^  I  whispered  my  information  to 
a  friend  present;  he  mentioned  it  to  Burns,  who  re- 
warded me  with  a  look  and  a  word,  which,  though  of 
mere  civility,  I  then  received  and  still  recollect  with 
very  great  pleasure. 

"His  person  was  strong  and  robust;  his  manners 
rustic,  not  clownish;  a  sort  of  dignified  plainness  and 
simplicity,  which  received  part  of  its  effect  perhaps 
from  one's  knowledge  of  his.  extraordinary  talents. 
His  features  are  represented  in  Mr.  Nasmyth's^  pic- 
ture: but  to  me  it  conveys  the  idea  that  they  are 
diminished,  as  if  seen  in  perspective.     I  think  his 

^  The  poem  may  be  found  in  Chalmers's  British  Poets,  vol. 
xvi.,  under  the  title  The  Country  Justice.  There  the  second  line 
reads  :  "  Perhaps  that  parent  mourn'd  her  soldier  slain."  John 
Langhorue  (1735-1779)  and  his  brother  William  made  the  trans- 
lation of  Plutarch's  Lives  which,  in  spite  of  its  dreary  style,  is 
still  the  one  in  general  use. 

2  Alexander  Nasmyth  (1758-1840)  painted  in  1787  a  bust 
portrait  of  Burns,  which  is  the  likeness  most  commonly  repro« 
duced. 


60  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

countenance  was  more  massive  than  it  looks  in  any  of 
the  portraits.  I  should  have  taken  the  poet,  had  I 
not  known  what  he  was,  for  a  very  sagacious  country 
farmer  of  the  old  Scotch  school,  i.  e.,  none  of  your 
modern  agriculturists  who  keep  laborers  for  their 
drudgery,  but  the  douce  gudeman  who  held  his  own 
plough.  There  was  a  strong  expression  of  sense  and 
shrewdness  in  all  his  lineaments;  the  eye  alone,  I 
think,  indicated  the  poetical  character  and  tempera- 
ment. It  was  large,  and  of  a  dark  cast,  which  glowed 
(I  say  literally  glowed)  when  he  spoke  with  feeling 
or  interest.  I  never  saw  such  another  eye  in  a  hu- 
man head,  though  I  have  seen  the  most  distinguished 
men  of  my  time.  His  conversation  expressed  per- 
fect self-confidence,  without  the  slightest  presumption. 
Among  the  men  who  were  the  most  learned  of  their 
time  and  country,  he  expressed  himself  with  perfect 
firmness,  but  without  the  least  intrusive  forwardness : 
and  when  he  differed  in  opinion,  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  express  it  firmly,  yet  at  the  same  time  with  mod- 
esty. I  do  not  remember  any  part  of  his  conversa- 
tion distinctly  enough  to  be  quoted;  nor  did  I  ever 
see  him  again,  except  in  the  street,  where  he  did 
not  recognize  me,  as  I  could  not  expect  he  should. 
He  was  much  caressed  in  Edinburgh:  but  (consid- 
ering what  literary  emoluments  have  been  since  his 
day)  the  efforts  made  for  his  relief  were  extremely 
trifling. 

"I  remember,  on  this  occasion  I  mention,  I  thought 
Burns 's  acquaintance  with  English  poetry  was  rather 
limited;  and  also  that,  having  twenty  times  the  abili- 
ties of  Allan  Ramsay  and  of  Ferguson,  he  talked  of 
them  with  too  much  humility  as  his  models:  there 
was  doubtless  national  predilection  in  his  estimate. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  61 

"This  is  all  I  can  tell  you  about  Burns.  I  have 
only  to  add,  that  his  dress  corresponded  with  his 
manner.  He  was  like  a  farmer  dressed  in  his  best 
to  dine  with  the  laird.  I  do  not  speak  in  malam 
partem^  when  I  say,  I  never  saw  a  man  in  company 
(vith  his  superiors  in  station  or  information  more  per- 
fectly free  from  either  the  reality  or  the  affectation 
of  embarrassment.  I  was  told,  but  did  not  observe 
it,  that  his  address  to  females  was  extremely  deferen- 
tial, and  always  with  a  turn  either  to  the  pathetic  or 
humorous,  which  engaged  their  attention  particularly. 
I  have  heard  the  late  Duchess  of  Gordon  remark  this. 
—  I  do  not  know  anything  I  can  add  to  these  recollec- 
tions of  forty  years  since."  ^ 

The  conduct  of  Burns  under  this  dazzling  blaze  of 
favor;  the  calm,  unaffected,  manly  manner  in  which 
he  not  only  bore  it,  but  estimated  its  value,  has  justly 
been  regarded  as  the  best  proof  that  could  be  given 
of  his  real  vigor  and  integrity  of  mind.  A  little 
natural  vanity,  some  touches  of  hypocritical  modesty, 
some  glimmerings  of  affectation,  at  least  some  fear 
of  being  thought  affected,  we  could  have  pardoned 
in  almost  any  man;  but  no  such  indication  is  to  be 
traced  here.  In  his  unexampled  situation  the  young 
peasant  is  not  a  moment  perplexed;  so  many  strange 
lights  do  not  confuse  him,  do  not  lead  him  astray. 
Nevertheless,  we  cannot  but  perceive  that  this  win- 
ter did  him  great  and  lasting  injury.  A  somewhat 
clearer  knowledge  of  men's  affairs,  scarcely  of  their 
characters,  it  did  afford  him;  but  a  sharper  feeling 
of  Fortune's  unequal  arrangements  in  their  social 
destiny  it  also  left  with  him.  He  had  seen  the  gay 
and  gorgeous  arena,  in  which  the  powerful  are  born 
^  Quoted  in  Lockhart,  chap.  v. 


62  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

to  play  their  parts;  nay  had  himself  stood  in  th,: 
midst  of  it;  and  he  felt  more  bitterly  than  ever,  that 
here  he  was  but  a  looker-on,  and  had  no  part  or  lot 
in  that  splendid  game.  From  this  time  a  jealous  in- 
dignant fear  of  social  degradation  takes  possession  of 
him ;  and  perverts,  so  far  as  aught  could  pervert,  his 
private  contentment,  and  his  feelings  towards  his 
richer  fellows.  It  was  clear  to  Burns  that  he  had 
talent  enough  to  make  a  fortune,  or  a  hundred  for- 
tunes, could  he  but  have  rightly  willed  this;  it  was 
clear  also  that  he  willed  something  far  different,  and 
therefore  could  not  make  one.  Unhappy  it  was  that 
he  had  not  power  to  choose  the  one,  and  reject  the 
other;  but  must  halt  forever  between  two  opinions, 
two  objects;  making  hampered  advancement  towards 
either.  But  so  is  it  with  many  men:  we  "long  for 
the  merchandise,  yet  would  fain  keep  the  price; "  and 
so  stand  chaffering  with  Fate  in  vexatious  altercation, 
till  the  night  come,  and  our  fair  is  over! 

The  Edinburgh  Learned  of  that  period  were  in 
general  more  noted  for  clearness  of  head  than  for 
warmth  of  heart :  with  the  exception  of  the  good  old 
Blacklock,^  whose  help  was  too  ineffectual,  scarcely 
one  among  them  seems  to  have  looked  at  Burns  with 
any  true  sympathy,  or  indeed  much  otherwise  than  as 
at  a  highly  curious  thing.  By  the  great  also  he  is 
treated  in  the  customary  fashion;  entertained  at  their 

^  Lockhart  gives  in  a  foot-note  (at  end  of  chap,  iv.)  the  fol- 
lowing quotation  from  a  letter  of  Dr.  Johnson  to  Mrs.  Thrale, 
August  17,  1773  :  — 

"  This  morning  I  saw  at  breakfast  Dr.  Blackloek,  the  blind 
poet,  who  does  not  remember  to  have  seen  light,  and  is  read 
to  by  a  poor  scholar  in  Latin,  Greek,  and  French.  He  was 
originally  a  poor  scholar  himself.  I  looked  on  him  with  rev- 
erence." 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  63 

tables  and  dismissed :  certain  modica  of  pudding  and 
praise  are,  from  time  to  time,  gladly  exchanged  for 
the  fascination  of  his  presence;  which  exchange  once 
effected,  the  bargain  is  finished,  and  each  party  goes 
his  several  way.  At  the  end  of  this  strange  season, 
Burns  gloomily  sums  up  his  gains  and  losses,  and 
meditates  on  the  chaotic  future.  In  money  he  is 
somewhat  richer;  in  fame  and  the  show  of  happiness, 
infinitely  richer;  but  in  the  substance  of  it,  as  poor 
as  ever.  Nay  poorer ;  for  his  heart  is  now  maddened 
still  more  with  the  fever  of  worldly  Ambition;  and 
through  long  years  the  disease  will  rack  him  with  un- 
profitable sufferings,  and  weaken  his  strength  for  all 
true  and  nobler  aims. 

What  Burns  was  next  to  do  or  to  avoid;  how  a 
man  so  circumstanced  was  now  to  guide  himself 
towards  his  true  advantage,  might  at  this  point  of 
time  have  been  a  question  for  the  wisest.  It  was  a 
question  too,  which  apparently  he  was  left  altogether 
to  answer  for  himself :  of  his  learned  or  rich  patrons 
it  had  not  struck  any  individual  to  turn  a  thought  on 
this  so  trivial  matter.  Without  claiming  for  Burns 
the  praise  of  perfect  sagacity,  we  must  say,  that  his 
Excise  and  Farm  scheme  does  not  seem  to  us  a  very 
unreasonable  one;  that  we  should  be  at  a  loss,  even 
now,  to  suggest  one  decidedly  better.  Certain  of  his 
admirers  have  felt  scandalized  at  his  ever  resolving 
to  gauge ;  and  would  have  had  him  lie  at  the  pool, 
till  the  spirit  of  Patronage  stirred  the  waters,  that 
so,  with  one  friendly  plunge,  all  his  sorrows  might 
be  healed.  1  Unwise  counsellors!  They  know  not 
the  manner  of  this  spirit;  and  how,  in  the  lap  of 
most  golden  dreams,  a  man  might  have  happiness, 
1  Cf.  John  V.  1-9. 


64  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

were  it  not  that  in  the  interim  he  must  die  of  hunger ! 
It  reflects  credit  on  the  manliness  and  sound  sense  of 
Burns,  that  he  felt  so  early  on  what  ground  he  was 
standing;  and  preferred  self-help,  on  the  humblest 
scale,  to  dependence  and  inaction,  though  with  hope 
of  far  more  splendid  possibilities.  But  even  these 
possibilities  were  not  rejected  in  his  scheme :  he  might 
expect,  if  it  chanced  that  he  had  any  friend,  to  rise, 
in  no  long  period,  into  something  even  like  opulence 
and  leisure;  while  again,  if  it  chanced  that  he  had 
no  friend,  he  could  still  live  in  security;  and  for  the 
rest,  he  "did  not  intend  to  borrow  honor  from  any 
profession."^  We  reckon  that  his  plan  was  honest 
and  well-calculated :  all  turned  on  the  execution  of  it. 
Doubtless  it  failed;  yet  not,  we  believe,  from  any 
vice  inherent  in  itseK.^  ^ay,  after  all,  it  was  no 
failure  of  external  means,  but  of  internal,  that  over- 
took Burns.     His  was  no  bankruptcy  of  the  purse, 

i  Words  of  Burns  quoted  in  Lockhart,  chap.  vii. 

2  "If.  Burns  had  much  of  a  farmer's  skill,  he  had  little  of 
a  farmer's  prudence  and  economy.  I  once  inquired  of  James 
Corrie,  a  sagacious  old  farmer,  whose  ground  marched  with 
EUiesland,  the  cause  of  the  poet's  failure.  *  Faith,'  said  he, 
*  how  could  he  miss  but  fail,  when  his  servants  ate  the  bread  as 
fast  as  it  was  baked  ?  I  don't  mean  figuratively,  I  mean  liter- 
ally. Consider  a  little.  At  that  time  close  economy  was  neces- 
sary to  have  enabled  a  man  to  clear  twenty  pounds  a  year  by 
EUiesland.  Now  Bums's  own  handy  work  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion; he  neither  ploughed,  nor  sowed,  nor  reaped,  at  least  like  a 
hard-working  farmer;  and  then  he  had  a  bevy  of  servants  from 
Ayrshire.  The  lasses  did  nothing  but  bake  bread,  and  the  lads 
sat  by  the  fireside,  and  ate  it  warm,  with  ale.  Waste  of  time 
and  consumption  of  food  would  soon  reach  to  twenty  pounds  a 
year.'" —  (Letter  to  Lockhart  from  Allan  Cunningham,  quoted 
in  Lockhart's  Life,  chap,  vii.) 


I 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS,  65 

but  of  the  soul;  to  his  last  day,  he  owed  no  man  any 
thing.  ^ 

Meanwhile  he  begins  well :  with  two  good  and  wise 
actions.  His  donation  to  his  mother,  munificent  from 
a  man  whose  income  had  lately  been  -seven  pounds 
a-year,  was  worthy  of  him,  and  not  more  than  worthy. 
Generous  also,  and  worthy  of  him,  was  the  treatment 
of  the  woman  whose  life's  weKare  now  depended  on 
his  pleasure.  A  friendly  observer  might  have  hoped 
serene  days  for  him:  his  mind  is  on  the  true  road 
to  peace  with  itself:  what  clearness  he  still  wants 
will  be  given  as  he  proceeds ;  for  the  best  teacher  of 
duties,  that  still  lie  dim  to  us,  is  the  Practice  of  those 
we  see  and  have  at  hand.  Had  the  "patrons  of  gen- 
ius," who  could  give  him  nothing,  but  taken  nothing 
from  him,  at  least  nothing  more !  The  wounds  of  his 
heart  would  have  healed,  vulgar  ambition  would  have 
died  away.  Toil  and  frugality  would  have  been  wel- 
come, since  Virtue  dwelt  with  them;  and  Poetry 
would  have  shone  through  them  as  of  old :  and  in  her 
clear  ethereal  light,  which  was  his  own  by  birthright, 
he  might  have  looked  down  on  his  earthly  destiny, 
and  all  its  obstructions,  not  with  patience  only,  but 
with  love. 

But  the  patrons  of  genius  would  not  have  it  so. 
Picturesque  tourists,^  all  manner  of  fashionable  dan- 

^  In  reality  Burns  occasionally  borrowed  money ;  but  at  his 
death  he  left  only  a  few  small  debts. 

^  There  is  one  little  sketch  by  certain  "  English  gentlemen " 
of  this  class,  which,  though  adopted  in  Currie's  narrative,  and 
since  then  repeated  in  most  others,  we  have  all  along  felt 
an  invincible  disposition  to  regard  as  imaginary  :  "  On  a  rock 
that  projected  into  the  stream,  they  saw  a  man  employed  in 
angling,  of  a  singular  appearance.  He  had  a  cap  made  of  fox- 
Bkin  on  his  head,  a  loose  greatcoat  fix^  round  him  by  a  belt, 


66  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

glers  after  literature,  and,  far  worse,  all  manner  of 
convivial  Maecenases,  ^  hovered  round  him  in  his  re- 
treat; and  his  good  as  well  as  his  weak  qualities  se- 
cured them  influence  over  him.  He  was  flattered  bj) 
their  notice;  and  his  warm  socialnature  made  it  im- 
possible for  him  to  shake  them  off,  and  hold  on  his 
way  apart  from  them.  These  men,  as  we  believe, 
were  proximately  the  means  of  his  ruin.  Not  that 
they  meant  him  any  ill;  they  only  meant  themselves 
a  little  good;  if  he  suffered  harm,  let  him  look  to  it! 
But  they  wasted  his  precious  time  and  his  precious 
talent;  they  disturbed  his  composure,  broke  down 
his  returning  habits  of  temperance  and  assiduous 
contented  exertion.  Their  pampering  was  baneful  to 
him;  their  cruelty,  which  soon  followed,  was  equally 
baneful.  The  old  grudge  against  Fortune's  inequality 
awoke  with  new  bitterness  in  their  neighborhood; 
and  Burns  had  no  retreat  but  to  "the  Rock  of  Inde- 

from  which  depended  an  enormous  Highland  broad-sword.  It 
was  Burns."  Now,  we  rather  think,  it  was  not  Burns.  For,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  foxskin  cap,  the  loose  and  quite  Hibernian 
watchcoat  with  the  belt,  what  are  we  to  make  of  this  "enormous 
Highland  broad-sword  "  depending  from  him  ?  More  especially, 
as  there  is  no  word  of  parish  constables  on  the  outlook  to  see 
whether,  as  Dennis  phrases  it,  he  had  an  eye  to  his  own  midriff 
or  that  of  the  public  !  Burns,  of  all  men,  had  the  least  need, 
and  the  least  tendency,  to  seek  for  distinction,  either  in  his  own 
eyes  or  those  of  others,  by  such  poor  mummeries.  —  [Carlyle's 
note.] 

Carlyle  thinks  this  petty  vanity  inconsistent  with  Burns's 
wise  self-control  at  Edinburgh.  But  we  cannot  reason  thus  in 
the  case  of  a  man  with  so  variable  a  temperament,  and  the 
anecdote  is  fairly  well  authenticated. 

^  Maecenas  was  the  great  literary  patron  of  the  Augustan  age 
of  Rome.  Virgil  addressed  to  him  his  Georgics,  and  Horace 
honors  his  name  repeatedly. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  67 

pendence,"  whicli  is  but  an  air-castle  after  all,  that 
looks  well  at  a  distance,  but  will  screen  no  one  from 
real  wind  and  wet.  Flushed  with  irregular  excite- 
ment, exasperated  alternately  by  contempt  of  others, 
and  contempt  of  himself.  Burns  was  no  longer  regain- 
ing his  peace  of  mind,  but  fast  losing  it  forever. 
There  was  a  hoUowness  at  the  heart  of  his  life,  for 
his  conscience  did  not  now  approve  what  he  was 
doing. 

Amid  the  vapors  of  unwise  enjoyment,  of  bootless 
remorse,  and  angry  discontent  with  Fate,  his  true 
loadstar,  a  life  of  Poetry,  with  Poverty,  nay  with 
Famine  if  it  must  be  so,  was  too  often  altogether 
hidden  from  his  eyes.  And  yet  he  sailed  a  sea, 
where  without  some  such  loadstar  there  was  no  right 
steering.  Meteors  of  French  Politics  rise  before  him, 
but  these  were  not  his  stars.  An  accident  this,  which 
hastened,  but  did  not  originate,  his  worst  distresses. 
In  the  mad  contentions  of  that  time,  he  comes  in  col- 
lision with  certain  official  Superiors;  is  wounded  by 
them;  cruelly  lacerated,  we  should  say,  could  a  dead 
mechanical  implement,  in  any  case,  be  called  cruel: 
and  shrinks,  in  indignant  pain,  into  deeper  self -seclu- 
sion, into  gloomier  moodiness  than  ever.  His  life 
has  now  lost  its  unity:  it  is  a  life  of  fragments;  led 
with  little  aim,  beyond  the  melancholy  one  of  securing 
its  own  continuance,  —  in  fits  of  wild  false  joy  when 
such  offered,  and  of  black  despondency  when  they 
passed  away.  His  character  before  the  world  begins 
to  suffer:  calumny  is  busy  w^ith  him;  for  a  miserable 
man  makes  more  enemies  than  friends.  Some  faults 
he  has  fallen  into,  and  a  thousand  misfortunes;  but 
deep  criminality  is  what  he  stands  accused  of,  and 
they  that  are  not  without  sin  cast  the  first  stone  at 


I 


68  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

liim!  For  is  he  not  a  well-wisher  to  the  French 
Revolution,  a  Jacobin,  and  therefore  in  that  one  act 
guilty  of  all?  These  accusations,  political  and  moral, 
it  has  since  appeared,  were  false  enough:  but  the 
world  hesitated  little  to  credit  them.^  Nay  his  con- 
vivial Maecenases  themselves  were  not  the  last  to  do  it. 
There  is  reason  to  believe  that,  in  his  later  years, 
the  Dumfries  Aristocracy  had  partly  withdrawn  them- 
selves from  Burns,  as  from  a  tainted  person,  no  longer 
worthy  of  their  acquaintance.  That  painful  class, 
stationed,  in  all  provincial  cities,  behind  the  outmost 
breastwork  of  Gentility,  there  to  stand  siege  and  do 
battle  against  the  intrusions  of  Grocerdom  and  Gra- 
zierdom,  had  actually  seen  dishonor  in  the  society  of 
Burns,  and  branded  him  with  their  veto;  had,  as  we  ^ 
vulgarly  say,  cut  him !  We  find  one  passage  in  this 
Work  of  Mr.  Lockhart's,  which  will  not  out  of  our 
thoughts :  — 

"A  gentleman  of  that  county,  whose  name  I  have 
already  more  than  once  had  occasion  to  refer  to,  has 
often  told  me  that  he  was  seldom  more  grieved,  than 
when  riding  into  Dumfries  one  fine  summer  evening 
about  this  time  to  attend  a  county  ball,  he  saw  Burns 
walking  alone,  on  the  shady  side  of  the  principal 
street  of  the  town,  while  the  opposite  side  was  gay 
with  successive  groups  of  gentlemen  and  ladies,  all 
drawn  together  for  the  festivities  of  the  night,  not 
one  of  whom  appeared  willing  to  recognize  him.  The 
horseman  dismounted,  and  joined  Burns,  who  on  his 
proposing  to  cross  the  street  said :  '  Nay,  nay,  my 
young  friend,  that 's  all  over  now;  '  and  quoted,  after 
a  pause,  some  verses  of  Lady  Grizzel  Baillie's  pathetic 
ballad :  — 

*  Lockhart  (chap,  viii.)  devotes  much  time  to  confuting  them. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  69 

*  His  bonnet  stood  ance  f u'  fair  on  his  brow, 

His  auld  ane  look'd  better  than  mony  ane's  new  5 
But  now  he  lets  't  wear  ony  way  it  will  hiug, 
And  casts  himsell  dowie  upon  the  coru-biiig. 

*  O,  were  we  young  as  we  ance  hae  been, 

We  sud  hae  been  galloppiug  down  on  yon  green, 
And  linking  it  ower  the  lily-white  lea  ! 
And  werena  my  heart  light,  I  wad  die.* 

It  was  little  in  Burns 's  character  to  let  his  feelings 
on  certain  subjects  escape  in  this  fashion.  He,  im- 
mediately after  reciting  these  verses,  assumed  the 
sprightliness  of  his  most  pleasing  manner;  and  taking 
his  young  friend  home  with  him,  entertained  him 
very  agreeably  till  the  hour  of  the  ball  arrived."^ 

Alas !  when  we  think  that  Burns  now  sleeps  "  where 
bitter  indignation  can  no  longer  lacerate  his  heart,"  ^ 
and  that  most  of  those  fair  dames  and  frizzled  gentle- 
men already  lie  at  his  side,  where  the  breastwork  of 
gentility  is  quite  thrown  down,  —  who  would  net  sigh 
over  the  thin  delusions  and  foolish  toys  that  divide 
heart  from  heart,  and  make  man  unmerciful  to  his 
brother ! 

It  was  not  now  to  be  hoped  that  the  genius  of 
Burns  would  ever  reach  maturity,  or  accomplish  aught 
worthy  of  itself.  His  spirit  was  jarred  in  its  melody: 
not  the  soft  breath  of  natural  feeling,  but  the  rude 
hand  of  Fate,  was  now  sweeping  over  the  strings. 
And  yet  what  harmony  was  in  him,  what  music  even 
in  his  discords !  How  the  wild  tones  had  a  charm  for 
the  simplest  and  the  wisest;  and  all  men  felt  and 
knew  that  here  also  was  one  of  the  Gifted !     "  If  he 

1  Lockhart,  chap.  viii. 

2  Ubi  scBva  indignatio  cor  ulterius  lacerare  nequit.  Swift's  Epi 
taph.     [Carlyle's  note.] 


70  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

entered  an  inn  at  midnight,  after  all  the  inmates  were 
in  bed,  the  news  of  his  arrival  circulated  from  the 
cellar  to  the  garret;  and  ere  ten  minutes  had  elapsed, 
the  landlord  and  all  his  guests  were  assembled ! " 
Some  brief  pure  moments  of  poetic  life  were  yet  ap- 
pointed him,  in  the  composition  of  his  Songs.  We 
can  understand  how  he  grasped  at  this  employment; 
and  how,  too,  he  spurned  all  other  reward  for  it  but 
what  the  labor  itself  brought  him.  For  the  soul  of 
Burns,  though  scathed  and  marred,  was  yet  living  in 
its  full  moral  strength,  though  sharply  conscious  of 
its  errors  and  abasement;  and  here,  in  his  destitution 
and  degradation,  was  one  act  of  seeming  nobleness 
and  self-devotedness  left  even  for  him  to  perform. 
He  felt,  too,  that  with  all  the  "thoughtless  follies" 
that  had  ''laid  him  low,"^  the  world  was  unjust  and 
cruel  to  him ;  and  he  silently  appealed  to  another  and 
calmer  time.  Not  as  a  hired  soldier,  but  as  a  patriot, 
would  he  strive  for  the  glory  of  his  country:  so  he 
cast  from  him  the  poor  sixpence  a-day,  and  served 
zealously  as  a  volunteer.  Let  us  not  grudge  him  this 
last  luxury  of  his  existence ;  let  him  not  have  appealed 
to  us  in  vain!  The  money  was  not  necessary  to  him; 
he  struggled  through  without  it:  long  since,  these 
guineas  would  have  been  gone,  and  now  the  high- 
mindedness  of  refusing  them  will  plead  for  him  in  all 
hearts  forever. 

We  are  here  arrived  at  the  crisis  of  Burns 's  life; 
for  matters  had  now  taken  such  a  shape  with  him  as 
could  not  long  continue.  If  improvement  was  not  to 
be  looked  for.  Nature  could  only  for  a  limited  time 
maintain  this  dark  and  maddening  warfare  against 
the  world  and  itself.  We  are  not  medically  informed 
^  A  Bard^s  Epitaph. 


ESSAY   ON  BURNS.  71 

whether  any  continuance  of  years  was,  at  this  period, 
probable  for  Burns;  whether  his  death  is  to  be  looked 
on  as  in  some  sense  an  accidental  event,  or  only  as 
the  natural  consequence  of  the  long  series  of  events 
that  had  preceded.  The  latter  seems  to  be  the  like- 
lier opinion;  and  yet  it  is  by  no  means  a  certain  one. 
At  all  events,  as  we  have  said,  some  change  could  not 
be  very  distant.  Three  gates  of  deliverance,  it  seems 
to  us,  were  open  for  Burns:  clear  poetical  activity; 
madness;  or  death.  The  first,  with  longer  life,  was 
still  possible,  though  not  probable;  for  physical  causes 
were  beginning  to  be  concerned  in  it :  and  yet  Burnj* 
had  an  iron  resolution;  could  he  but  have  seen  anc^ 
felt,  that  not  only  his  highest  glory,  but  his  first 
duty,  and  the  true  medicine  for  all  his  woes,  lay  here. 
The  second  was  still  less  probable ;  for  his  mind  was 
ever  among  the  clearest  and  firmest.  So  the  milder 
third  gate  was  opened  for  him:  and  he  passed,  not 
softly  yet  speedily,  into  that  still  country,  where  the 
hail-storms  and  fire-showers  do  not  reach,  and  the 
heaviest-laden  wayfarer  at  length  lays  down  his  load ! 

Contemplating  this  sad  end  of  Burns,  and  how  he 
sank  unaided  by  any  real  help,  uncheered  by  any 
wise  sympathy,  generous  minds  have  sometimes  fig- 
ured to  themselves,  with  a  reproachful  sorrow,  that 
much  might  have  been  done  for  him ;  that  by  counsel, 
true  affection  and  friendly  ministrations,  he  might 
have  been  saved  to  himself  and  the  world.  We  ques- 
tion whether  there  is  not  more  tenderness  of  heart 
than  soundness  of  judgment  in  these  suggestions.  It 
seems  dubious  to  us  whether  the  richest,  wisest,  most 
benevolent  individual  could  have  lent  Burns  any  effec- 
tual help.     Counsel,  which  seldom  profits  any  one, 


72  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

he  did  not  need;  in  his  understanding,  he  knew  the 
right  from  the  wrong,  as  well  perhaps  as  any  man 
ever  did;  but  the  persuasion,  which  would  have 
availed  him,  lies  not  so  much  in  the  head  as  in  the 
heart,  where  no  argument  or  expostulation  could  have 
assisted  much  to  implant  it.  As  to  money  again,  we 
do  not  believe  that  this  was  his  essential  want;  or 
well  see  how  any  private  man  could,  even  presuppos- 
ing Burns 's  consent,  have  bestowed  on  him  an  inde- 
pendent fortune,  with  much  prospect  of  decisive  ad- 
vantage. It  is  a  mortifying  truth,  that  two  men,  in 
any  rank  of  society,  could  hardly  be  found  virtuous 
enough  to  give  money,  and  to  take  it  as  a  necessary 
gift,  without  injury  to  the  moral  entireness  of  one  or 
both.  But  so  stands  the  fact :  Friendship,  in  the  old 
heroic  sense  of  that  term,  no  longer  exists ;  except  in 
the  cases  of  kindred  or  other  legal  affinity,  it  is  in 
reality  no  longer  expected,  or  recognized  as  a  virtue 
among  men.  A  close  observer  of  manners  has  pro- 
nounced "Patronage,"  that  is,  pecuniary  or  other 
economic  furtherance,  to  be  "twice  cursed;"  curs- 
ing him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes !  ^  And  thus, 
in  regard  to  outward  matters  also,  it  has  become  the 
rule,  as  in  regard  to  inward  it  always  was  and  must 
be  the  rule,  that  no  one  shall  look  for  effectual  help 
to  another;  but  that  each  shall  rest  contented  with 
what  help  he  can  afford  himself.  Such,  we  say,  is 
the  principle  of  modern  Honor;  naturally  enough 
growing  out  of  that  sentiment  of  Pride,  which  we  in- 
culcate and  encourage  as  the  basis  of  our  whole  social 
morality.  Many  a  poet  has  been  poorer  than  Burns; 
but  no  one  was  ever  prouder:  we  may  question 
whether,  without  great  precautions,  even  a  pension 
1  The  parody  is  from  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  iv.  1. 


I 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  73 

from  Royalty  would  not  have  galled  and  encumbered, 
more  than  actually  assisted  him. 

Still"  less,  therefore,  are  we  disposed  to  join  with 
another  class  of  Burns 's  admirers,  who  accuse  the 
higher  ranks  among  us  of  having  ruined  Burns  by 
their  selfish  neglect  of  him.  We  have  already  stated 
our  doubts  whether  direct  pecuniary  help,  had  it  been 
offered,  would  have  been  accepted,  or  could  have 
proved  very  effectual.  We  shall  readily  admit,  how- 
ever, that  much  was  to  be  done  for  Burns ;  that  many 
a  poisoned  arrow  might  have  been  warded  from  his 
bosom ;  many  an  entanglement  in  his  path  cut  asun- 
der by  the  hand  of  the  powerful;  and  light  and  heat, 
shed  on  him  from  high  places,  would  have  made  his 
humble  atmosphere  more  genial ;  and  the  softest  heart 
then  breathing  might  have  lived  and  died  with  some 
fewer  pangs.  Nay,  we  shall  grant  farther,  and  for 
Burns  it  is  granting  much,  that,  with  all  his  pride, 
he  would  have  thanked,  even  with  exaggerated  grati- 
tude, any  one  who  had  cordially  befriended  him: 
patronage,  unless  once  cursed,  needed  not  to  have 
been  twice  so.  At  all  events,  the  poor  promotion  he 
desired  in  his  calling  might  have  been  granted:  it 
was  his  own  scheme,  therefore  likelier  than  any  other 
to  be  of  service.  All  this  it  might  have  been  a  lux- 
ury, nay  it  was  a  duty,  for  our  nobility  to  have  done. 
No  part  of  all  this,  however,  did  any  of  them  do ;  or 
apparently  attempt,  or  wish  to  do :  so  much  is  granted 
against  them.  But  what  then  is  the  amount  of  their 
blame?  Simply  that  they  were  men  of  the  world, 
and  walked  by  the  principles  of  such  men ;  that  they 
treated  Burns,  as  other  nobles  and  other  commoners 
had  done  other  poets;  as  the  English  did  Shake- 
speare; as  King  Charles  and  his  Cavaliers  did  But- 


74  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

ler,^  as  King  Philip  and  his  Grandees  did  Cervantes. 
Do  men  gather  grapes  of  thorns  ;2  or  shall  we  cut 
down  our  thorns  for  yielding  only  2i  fence  and  haws? 
How,  indeed,  could  the  "nobility  and  gentry  of  his 
native  land"  hold  out  any  help  to  this  "Scottish 
Bard,  proud  of  his  name  and  country  "  ?  ^  Were  the 
nobility  and  gentry  so  much  as  able  rightly  to  help 
themselves?  Had  they  not  their  game  to  j)reserve; 
their  borough  interests  to  strengthen;  dinners,  there- 
fore, of  various  kinds  to  eat  and  give?  Were  their 
means  more  than  adequate  to  all  this  business,  or  less 
than  adequate?  Less  than  adequate,  in  general;  few 
of  them  in  reality  were  richer  than  Burns;  many  of 
them  were  poorer;  for  sometimes  they  had  to  wring 
their  supplies,  as  with  thumbscrews,  from  the  hard 
hand;  and,  in  their  need  of  guineas,  to  forget  their 
duty  of  mercy;  which  Burns  was  never  reduced  to 
do.  Let  us  pity  and  forgive  them.  The  game  they 
preserved  and  shot,  the  dinners  they  ate  and  gave, 
the  borough  interests  they  strengthened,  the  little 
Babylons  they  severally  builded  by  the  glory  of  their 
might,*  are  all  melted  or  melting  back  into  the  pri- 
meval Chaos,  as  man's  merely  selfish  endeavors  are 
fated  to  do :  and  here  was  an  action,  extending,  in  vir- 
tue of  its  worldly  influence,  we  may  say,  through  all 
time ;  in  virtue  of  its  moral  nature,  beyond  all  time, 
being  immortal  as  the  Spirit  of  Goodness  itself ;  this 
action  was  offered  them  to  do,  and  light  was  not  given 

^  Cf .  page  1,  above. 
2  Cf.  Matthew  vii.  16. 

*  An  echo  from  Burns's  dedication  to  the  first  Edinburgh  ©di* 
tion  of  his  poems.     Cf.  page  3,  above. 

*  Cf .  Daniel  iv.  30. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  75 

them  to  do  it.  Let  us  pity  and  forgive  them.  But 
better  than  pity,  let  us  go  and  do  otherwise.  Human 
suffering  did  not  end  with  the  life  of  Burns ;  neither 
was  the  solemn  mandate,  "Love  one  another,  bear 
one  another's  burdens,"  ^  given  to  the  rich  only,  but 
to  all  men.  True,  we  shall  find  no  Burns  to  relieve, 
to  assuage  by  our  aid  or  our  pity;  but  celestial  na- 
tures, groaning  under  the  fardels  of  a  weary  life,  we 
shall  still  find;  and  that  wretchedness  which  Fate 
has  rendered  voiceless  and  tuneless  is  not  the  least 
wretched,  but  the  most.^ 

Still  we  do  not  think  that  the  blame  of  Burns 's 
failure  lies  chiefly  with  the  world.  The  world,  it 
seems  to  us,  treated  him  with  more  rather  than  with 
less  kindness  than  it  usually  shows  to  such  men.  It 
has  ever,  we  fear,  shown  but  small  favor  to  its  Teach- 
ers: hunger  and  nakedness,  perils  and  revilings,  the 
prison,  the  cross,  the  poison-chalice  have,  in  most 
times  and  countries,  been  the  market  -  price  it  has 
offered  for  Wisdom,  the  welcome  with  which  it  has 
greeted  those  who  have  come  to  enlighten  and  purify 
it.  Homer  and  Socrates,  and  the  Christian  Apostles, 
belong  to  old  days ;  but  the  world's  Marty rology  was 
not  completed  with  these.  Roger  Bacon  and  Galileo 
languish  in  priestly  dungeons ;  Tasso  pines  in  the  cell 
of  a  madhouse;  Camoens  dies  begging  on  the  streets 
of  Lisbon.^     So  neglected,   so  "persecuted  they  the 

^  The  first  half  of  this  precept  occurs  eight  times  in  the  New 
Testament  ;  the  second  only  in  Galatians  vi.  2. 

^  This  cry  of  indignation  at  the  absorption  of  men  in  the  cares 
of  this  world,  and  their  indifference  to  higher  things,  occurs 
repeatedly  in  Carlyle. 

3  Every  reader  should  have  a  clear  idea,  not  necessarily  of 
the  details  in  the  lives  of  these  men,  but  of  the  general  signifi- 
cance of  each  in  the  history  of  the  world. 


76  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

Prophets,"^  not  in  Judea  only,  but  in  all  places 
where  men  have  been.  We  reckon  that  every  poet 
of  Burns 's  order  is,  or  should  be,  a  prophet  and 
teacher  to  his  age;  that  he  has  no  right  to  expect 
great  kindness  from  it,  but  rather  is  bound  to  do  it 
great  kindness ;  that  Burns,  in  particular,  experienced 
fully  the  usual  proportion  of  the  world's  goodness; 
and  that  the  blame  of  his  failure,  as  we  have  said, 
lies  not  chiefly  with  the  world. 

Where,  then,  does  it  lie?  We  are  forced  to  an- 
swer: With  himself;  it  is  his  inward,  not  his  out- 
ward, misfortunes  that  bring  him  to  the  dust.  Sel- 
dom, indeed,  is  it  otherwise;  seldom  is  a  life  morally 
wrecked  but  the  grand  cause  lies  in  some  internal 
mal-arrangement,  some  want  less  of  good  fortune 
than  of  good  guidance.  Nature  fashions  no  creature 
without  implanting  in  it  the  strength  needful  for  its 
action  and  duration;  least  of  all  does  she  so  neglect 
her  masterpiece  and  darling,  the  poetic  soul.  Neither 
can  we  believe  that  it  is  in  the  power  of  any  exter- 
nal circumstances  utterly  to  ruin  the  mind  of  a  man ; 
nay,  if  proper  wisdom  be  given  him,  even  so  much  as 
to  affect  its  essential  health  and  beauty.  The  stern- 
est sum  -  total  of  all  worldly  misfortunes  is  Death ; 
nothing  more  can  lie  in  the  cup  of  human  woe :  yet 
many  men,  in  all  ages,  have  triumphed  over  Death, 
and  led  it  captive;  ^  converting  its  physical  victory 
into  a  moral  victory  for  themselves,  into  a  seal  and 
immortal  consecration  for  all  that  their  past  life  had 
achieved.  What  has  been  done,  may  be  done  again : 
nay  it  is  but  the  degree  and  not  the  kind  of  such 
heroism  that  differs  in  different  seasons ;  for  without 

^  Matthew  v.  12;  and  compare  Luke  vi.  23. 
^  There  is  an  allusion  to  Ephesians  iv.  8. 


i 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  11 

some  portion  of  this  spirit,  not  of  boisterous  daring, 
but  of  silent  fearlessness,  of  Self  -  denial  in  all  its 
forms,  no  good  man,  in  any  scene  or  time,  has  ever 
attained  to  be  good.^ 

We  have  already  stated  the  error  of  Burns;  and 
mourned  over  it,  rather  than  blamed  it.  It  was  the 
want  of  unity  in  liis  purposes,  of  consistency  in  his 
aims;  the  hapless  attempt  to  mingle  in  friendly  union 
the  common  spirit  of  the  world  with  the  spirit  of 
poetry,  which  is  of  a  far  different  and  altogether 
irreconcilable  nature.  Burns  was  nothing  wholly,  and 
Burns  could  be  nothing,  no  man  formed  as  he  was  can 
be  anything,  by  halves.  The  heart,  not  of  a  mere  hot- 
blooded,  popular  Verse-monger,  or  poetical  Hestaura- 
teur^^  but  of  a  true  Poet  and  Singer,  worthy  of  the 
old  religious  heroic  times,  had  been  given  him :  and  he 
fell  in  an  age,  not  of  heroism  and  religion,  but  of  scep- 
ticism, selfishness,  and  triviality,  when  true  Nobleness 
was  little  understood,  and  its  place  supplied  by  a  hol- 
low, dissocial,  altogether  barren  and  unfruitful  princi- 
ple of  Pride.  The  influences  of  that  age,  his  open, 
kind,  susceptible  nature,  to  say  nothing  of  his  highly 
untoward  situation,  made  it  more  than  usually  diffi- 
cult for  him  to  cast  aside,  or  rightly  subordinate;  the 
better  spirit  that  was  within  him  ever  sternly  de- 
manded its  rights,  its  supremacy :  he  spent  his  life  in 
endeavoring  to  reconcile  these  two ;  and  lost  it,  as  he 
must  lose  it,  without  reconciling  them. 

^  This  moral  is  worked  out  with  wonderful  power  in  Sartor 
Resartus. 

2  The  word  means  simply  restorer ;  but  Carlyle  uses  it  to  de- 
note a  man  who  uses  his  literary  talent  merely  to  give  amuse- 
ment, not  to  inculcate  truth.  Here  again  is  a  veiled  sneer  at 
Byrou  and  Scott. 


78  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

Burns  was  born  poor;  and  born  also  to  continue 
poor,  for  he  would  not  endeavor  to  be  otherwise :  this 
it  had  been  well  could  he  have  once  for  all  admitted, 
and  considered  as  finally  settled.  He  was  poor,  truly ; 
but  hundreds  even  of  his  own  class  and  order  of  minds 
have  been  poorer,  yet  have  suffered  nothing  deadly 
from  it :  nay  his  own  Father  had  a  far  sorer  battle 
with  ungrateful  destiny  than  his  was ;  and  he  did  not 
yield  to  it,  but  died  courageously  warring,  and  to 
all  moral  intents  prevailing,  against  it.  True,  Burns 
had  little  means,  had  even  little  time  for  poetry,  his 
only  real  pursuit  and  vocation ;  but  so  much  the  more 
precious  was  what  little  he  had.  In  all  these  exter- 
nal respects  his  case  was  hard;  but  very  far  from 
the  hardest.  Poverty,  incessant  drudgery  and  much 
worse  evils,  it  has  often  been  the  lot  of  Poets  and 
wise  men  to  strive  with,  and  their  glory  to  conquer. 
Locke  was  banished  as  a  traitor;  and  wrote  his  "Es- 
say on  the  Human  Understanding  "  sheltering  himself 
in  a  Dutch  garret.  Was  Milton  rich  or  at  his  ease 
when  he  composed  ""  Paradise  Lost  "  ?  Not  only 
low,but  fallen  from  a  height;  not  only  poor,  but  im- 
poverished; in  darkness  and  with  dangers  compassed 
round,  he  sang  his  immortal  song,  and  found  fit  audi- 
ence, though  few.i  Did  not  Cervantes  finish  his 
work,  a  maimed  soldier  and  in  prison?  Nay,  was 
not  the  "  Araucana, "  2  which  Spain  acknowledges  as 
its  Epic,  written  without  even  the  aid  of  paper ;   on 

^  See  Paradise  Lost,  vii.  24-31. 

2  The  Araucana  is  the  best  of  a  score  of  epics  written  in  the 
reign  of  Philip  II.  of  Spain  in  imitation  of  the  Italian  poets 
Ariosto  and  Tasso.  Its  author,  Alonso  de  Ercilla  y  Zuuiga 
(1533-1595),  writes  of  the  Spanish  campaigns  against  the  In- 
dians of  Arauco,  in  which  he  himself  took  part.     The  early  part 


ESSAY   ON  BURNS.  79 

scraps  of  leather,  as  the  stout  fighter  and  voyager 
snatched  any  moment  from  that  wild  warfare  ? 

And  what,  then,  had  these  men,  which  Burns 
wanted?  Two  things;  both  which,  it  seems  to  us, 
are  indispensable  for  such  men.  They  had  a  true, 
religious  principle  of  morals;  and  a  single,  not  a 
double  aim  in  their  activity.  They  were  not  self- 
seekers  and  self -worshippers;  but  seekers  and  wor- 
shippers of  something  far  better  than  Self.  Not 
personal  enjoyment  was  their  object;  but  a  high, 
heroic  idea  of  Religion,  of  Patriotism,  of  heavenly 
Wisdom,  in  one  or  the  other  form,  ever  hovered  be- 
fore them;  in  which  cause  they  neither  shrank  from 
suffering,  nor  called  on-  the  earth  to  witness  it  as 
something  wonderful;  but  patiently  endured,  count- 
ing it  blessedness  enough  so  to  spend  and  be  spent. 
Thus  the  "golden-calf  of  Self-love,"  however  curiously 
carved,  was  not  their  Deity;  but  the  Invisible  Good- 
ness, which  alone  is  man's  reasonable  service.  This 
feeling  was  as  a  celestial  fountain,  whose  streams 
refreshed  into  gladness  and  beauty  all  the  provinces 
of  their  otherwise  too  desolate  existence.  In  a  word, 
they  willed  one  thing,  to  which  all  other  things  were 
subordinated  and  made  subservient;  and  therefore 
they  accomplished  it.  The  wedge  will  rend  rocks; 
but  its  edge  must  be  sharp  and  single :  if  it  be  double, 
the  wedge  is  bruised  in  pieces  and  will  rend  nothing. 

Part  of  this  superiority  these  men  owed  to  their 
age;  in  which  heroism  and  devotedness  were  still 
practised,  or  at  least  not  yet  disbelieved  in ;  but 
much  of  it  likewise  they  owed  to  themselves.     With 

of  the  poem  was  written  in  the  field,  in  the  manner  that  Carlyle 
describes.  The  Araucana  is  now  little  read  ;  and  its  author  is 
no  way  comparable  to  the  great  epic  poets  of  Italy  and  England. 


80  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

Burns,  again,  it  was  different.  His  morality,  in 
most  of  its  practical  points,  is  that  of  a  mere  worldly 
man;  enjoyment,  in  a  finer  or  coarser  shape,  is  the 
only  thing  he  longs  and  strives  for.  A  noble  instinct 
sometimes  raises  him  above  this;  but  an  instinct 
only,  and  acting  only  for  moments.  He  has  no  Reli- 
gion; in  the  shallow  age,  where  his  days  were  cast. 
Religion  was  not  discriminated  from  the  New  and 
Old  Light  ybr/ns  of  Religion;  and  was,  with  these, 
becoming  obsolete  in  the  minds  of  men.  His  heart, 
indeed,  is  alive  with  a  trembling  adoration,  but  there 
is  no  temple  in  his  understanding.  He  lives  in  dark- 
ness and  in  the  shadow  of  doubt.  His  religion,  at 
best,  is  an  anxious  wish;  like  that  of  Rabelais,  "a 
great  Perhaps." 

He  loved  Poetry  warmly,  and  in  his  heart;  could 
he  but  have  loved  it  purely,  and  with  his  whole  undi- 
vided heart,  it  had  been  well.  For  Poetry,  as  Burns 
could  have  followed  it,  is  but  another  form  of  Wis- 
dom, of  Religion:  is  itself  Wisdom  and  Religion. 
But  this  also  was  denied  him.  His  poetry  is  a  stray 
vagrant  gleam,  which  will  not  be  extinguished  within 
him,  yet  rises  not  to  be  the  true  light  of  his  path, 
but  is  often  a  wildfire  that  misleads  him.  It  was  not 
necessary  for  Burns  to  be  rich,  to  be,  or  to  seem, 
"independent;  "  but  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  be 
at  one  with  his  own  heart;  to  place  what  was  highest 
in  his  nature  highest  also  in  his  life;  "to  seek  within 
himself  for  that  consistency  and  sequence,  which  ex- 
ternal events  would  forever  refuse  him."  He  was 
born  a  poet;  poetry  was  the  celestial  element  of  his 
being,  and  should  have  been  the  soul  of  his  whole 
endeavors.  Lifted  into  that  serene  ether,  whither  he 
had  wings  given  him  to  mount,  he  would  have  needed 


ESSAY   ON  BURNS.  81 

no  other  elevation:  poverty,  neglect,  and  all  evil, 
save  the  desecration  of  himself  and  his  Art,  were  a 
small  matter  to  him;  the  pride  and  the  passions  of 
the  world  lay  far  beneath  his  feet;  and  he  looked 
down  alike  on  noble  and  slave,  on  prince  and  beggar, 
and  all  that  wore  the  stamp  of  man,  with  clear  recog- 
nition, with  brotherly  affection,  with  sympathy,  with 
pity.  Nay,  we  question  whether  for  his  culture  as 
a  Poet  poverty  and  much  suffering  for  a  season  were 
not  absolutely  advantageous.  Great  men,  in  looking 
back  over  their  lives,  have  testified  to  that  effect. 
"I  would  not  for  much,"  says  Jean  Paul,  "that  I 
had  been  born  richer."  And  yet  Paul's  birth  was 
poor  enough;  for,  in  another  place,  he  adds:  "The 
prisoner's  allowance  is  bread  and  water;  and  I  had 
often  only  the  latter."  ^  But  the  gold  that  is  refined 
in  the  hottest  furnace  comes  out  the  purest;  or,  as 
he  has  himself  expressed  it,  "the  canary-bird  sings 
sweeter  the  longer  it  has  been  trained  in  a  darkened 
cage." 

A  man  like  Burns  might  have  divided  his  hours 
between  poetry  and  virtuous  industry;  industry  which 
all  true  feeling  sanctions,  nay  prescribes,  and  which 
has  a  beauty,  for  that  cause,  beyond  the  pomp  of 
thrones :  but  to  divide  his  hours  between  poetry  and 
rich  men's  banquets  was  an  ill-starred  and  inauspi- 
cious attempt.  How  could  he  be  at  ease  at  such  ban- 
quets?    What  had  he  to  do  there,  mingling  his  music 

1  Jean  Paul  Friedrich  Richter  (1763-1825)  is  one  of  Carlyle's 
favorite  authors,  and  one  of  those  who  influenced  him  most. 
He  is  the  subject  of  Carlyle's  first  essay  in  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view (1827),  and  is  treated  again  in  another  and  a  greater  essay 
in  the  Foreign  Review  (1830).  These  two  papers  by  Carlyle 
remain  among  the  best  accounts  of  Richter  accessible  in  Eng- 
Hsh. 


82  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

with  the  coarse  roar  of  altogether  earthly  voices; 
brightening  the  thick  smoke  of  intoxication  with  fire 
lent  him  from  heaven  ?  Was  it  his  aim  to  enjoy  life ! 
To-morrow  he  must  go  drudge  as  an  Exciseman! 
We  wonder  not  that  Burns  became  moody,  indignant, 
and  at  times  an  offender  against  certain  rules  of  soci- 
ety; but  rather  that  he  did  not  grow  utterly  frantic, 
and  run  amuck  against  them  all.  How  could  a  man, 
so  falsely  placed,  by  his  own  or  others'  fault,  ever 
know  contentment  or  peaceable  diligence  for  an  hour  ? 
What  he  did,  under  such  perverse  guidance,  and 
what  he  forbore  to  do,  alike  fill  us  with  astonishment 
at  the  natural  strength  and  worth  of  his  character. 

Doubtless  there  was  a  remedy  for  this  perverseness; 
but  not  in  others;  only  in  himself;  least  of  all  in 
simple  increase  of  wealth  and  worldly  "respectabil- 
ity." We  hope  we  have  now  heard  enough  about 
the  efficacy  of  wealth  for  poetry,  and  to  make  poets 
happy.  Nay,  have  we  not  seen  another  instance  of 
it  in  these  very  days  ?  Byron,  a  man  of  an  endow- 
ment considerably  less  ethereal  than  that  of  Burns, 
is  born  in  the  rank  not  of  a  Scottish  ploughman,  but 
of  an  English  peer :  the  highest  worldly  honors,  the 
fairest  worldly  career,  are  his  by  inheritance;  the 
richest  harvest  of  fame  he  soon  reaps,  in  another 
province,  by  his  own  hand.  And  what  does  all  this 
avail  him?  Is  he  happy,  is  he  good,  is  he  true? 
Alas,  he  has  a  poet's  soul,  and  strives  towards  the 
Infinite  and  the  Eternal;  and  soon  feels  that  all  this 
is  but  mounting  to  the  housetop  to  reach  the  stars ! 
Like  Burns,  he  is  only  a  proud  man;  might,  like 
him,  have  "purchased  a  pocket-copy  of  Milton  to 
study  the  character  of  Satan;  "  for  Satan  is  also 
Byron's  grand  exemplar,  the  hero  of  his  poetry,  and 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  83 

the  model  apparently  of  Ms  conduct.^  As  in  Burns's 
case  too,  the  celestial  element  will  not  mingle  with 
the  clay  of  earth;  both  poet  and  man  of  the  world  he 
must  not  be;  vulgar  Ambition  will  not  live  kindly 
with  poetic  Adoration;  he  cannot  serve  God  and  Mam- 
mon. Byron,  like  Burns,  is  not  happy;  nay  he  is 
the  most  wretched  of  all  men.  His  life  is  falsely 
arranged:  the  fire  that  is  in  him  is  not  a  strong, 
still,  central  fire,  warming  into  beauty  the  products 
of  a  world;  but  it  is  the  mad  fire  of  a  volcano;  and 
now  —  we  look  sadly  into  the  ashes  of  a  crater,  which 
ere  long  will  fill  itself  with  snow ! 

Byron  and  Burns  were  sent  forth  as  missionaries 
to  their  generation,  to  teach  it  a  higher  Doctrine,  a 
purer  Truth;  they  had  a  message  to  deliver,  which 
left  them  no  rest  till  it  was  accomplished;  in  dim 
throes  of  pain,  this  divine  behest  lay  smouldering 
within  them;  for  they  knew  not  what  it  meant,  and 
felt  it  only  in  mysterious  anticipation,  and  they  had 
to  die  without  articulately  uttering  it.  They  are  in 
the  camp  of  the  Unconverted;  yet  not  as  high  mes- 
sengers of  rigorous  though  benignant  truth,  but  as 
soft  flattering  singers,  and  in  pleasant  fellowship  will 
they  live  there:  they  are  first  adulated,  then  perse- 
cuted; they  accomplish  little  for  others;  they  find  no 
peace  for  themselves,  but  only  death  and  the  peace  of 
the  grave.  We  confess,  it  is  not  without  a  certain 
mournful  awe  that  we  view  the  fate  of  these  noble 

1  "  I  have  bought  a  pocket  Milton,  which  I  carry  perpetually 
about  me,  in  order  to  study  the  sentiments,  the  dauntless  mag- 
nanimity, the  intrepid  unyielding  independence,  the  desperate 
daring,  and  noble  defiance  of  hardship  in  that  great  personage 
■ —  Satan."  —  Letter  of  Burns,  quoted  in  Lockhart,  chap.  vi. 

Bitter  epigrams  like  this  on  Byron  become  a  characteristic  of 
Carlyle's  style  in  his  later  writings. 


84  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

souls,  so  richly  gifted,  yet  ruined  to  so  little  purpose 
with  all  their  gifts.  It  seems  to  us  there  is  a  stern 
moral  taught  in  this  piece  of  history,  —  twice  told  us 
in  our  own  time !  Surely  to  men  of  like  genius,  if 
there  be  any  such,  it  carries  with  it  a  lesson  of  deep 
impressive  significance.  Surely  it  would  become  such 
a  man,  furnished  for  the  highest  of  all  enterprises, 
that  of  being  the  Poet  of  his  Age,  to  consider  well 
what  it  is  that  he  attempts,  and  in  what  spirit  he 
attempts  it.  For  the  words  of  Milton  are  true  in  all 
times,  and  were  never  truer  than  in  this:  "He  who 
would  write  heroic  poems  must  make  his  whole  life 
a  heroic  poem." ^  If  he  cannot  first  so  make  his  life, 
then  let  him  hasten  from  this  arena;  for  neither  its 
lofty  glories,  nor  its  fearful  perils,  are  fit  for  him. 
Let  him  dwindle  into  a  modish  balladmonger;  let 
him  worship  and  besing  the  idols  of  the  time,  and  the 
time  will  not  fail  to  reward  him.  If,  indeed,  he  can 
endure  to  live  in  that  capacity!  Byron  and  Burns 
could  not  live  as  idol-priests,  but  the  fire  of  their  own 
hearts  consumed  them;  and  better  it  was  for  them 
that  they  could  not.  For  it  is  not  in  the  favor  of 
the  great  or  of  the  small,  but  in  a  life  of  truth,  and 
in  the  inexpugnable  citadel  of  his  own  soul,  that  a 
Byron's  or  a  Burns 's  strength  must  lie.  Let  the 
great  stand  aloof  from  him,  or  know  how  to  reverence 
him.     Beautiful  is  the  union  of  wealth  with  favor 

1  Milton's  real  words  are  :  "  I  was  confirmed  in  this  opinion, 
that  he  who  would  not  be  frustrate  of  his  hope  to  write  well 
hereafter  in  laudable  things,  ought  himself  to  be  a  true  poem  ; 
that  is,  a  composition  and  pattern  of  the  best  and  honourablest 
things;  not  presuming  to  sing  high  praises  of  heroic  men,  or 
famous  cities,  unless  he  has  in  himself  the  experience  and  the 
practice  of  all  that  which  is  praiseworthy."  —  Apology  for  Smec- 
tymnuus. 


ESSAY  ON  BURNS.  85 

and  furtherance  for  literature;  like  the  costliest 
flower- jar  enclosing  the  loveliest  amaranth.  Yet  let 
not  the  relation  be  mistaken.  A  true  poet  is  not  one 
whom  they  can  hire  by  money  or  flattery  to  be  a  min- 
ister of  their  pleasures;  their  writer  of  occasional 
verses,  their  purveyor  of  table-wit;  he  cannot  be  their 
menial,  he  cannot  even  be  their  partisan.  At  the 
peril  of  both  parties,  let  no  such  union  be  attempted  I 
Will  a  Courser  of  the  Sun  work  softly  in  the  harness 
of  a  Dray-horse  ?  His  hoofs  are  of  fire,  and  his  path 
is  through  the  heavens,  bringing  light  to  all  lands; 
will  he  lumber  on  mud  highways,  dragging  ale  for 
earthly  appetites  from  door  to  door? 

But  we  must  stop  short  in  these  considerations, 
which  would  lead  us  to  boundless  lengths.  We  had 
something  to  say  on  the  public  moral  character  of 
Burns ;  but  this  also  we  must  forbear.  We  are  far 
from  regarding  him  as  guilty  before  the  world,  as 
guiltier  than  the  average;  nay  from  doubting  that  he 
is  less  guilty  than  one  of  ten  thousand.  Tried  at  a 
tribunal  far  more  rigid  than  that  where  the  Plehis- 
cita  of  common  civic  reputations  are  pronounced,  he 
has  seemed  to  us  even  there  less  worthy  of  blame  than 
of  pity  and  wonder.  But  the  world  is  habitually 
unjust  in  its  judgments  of  such  men;  unjust  on  many 
groimds,  of  which  this  one  may  be  stated  as  the  sub- 
stance :  It  decides,  like  a  court  of  law,  by  dead  stat- 
utes; and  not  positively  but  negatively,  less  on  what 
is  done  right,  than  on  what  is  or  is  not  done  wrong. 
Not  the  few  inches  of  deflection  from  the  mathemati- 
cal orbit,  which  are  so  easily  measured,  but  the  ratio 
of  these  to  the  whole  diameter,  constitutes  the  real 
aberration.  This  orbit  may  be  a  planet's,  its  diame- 
ter the  breadth  of  the  solar  system;  or  it  may  be  a 


8G  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

city  hippodrome;  nay  the  circle  of  a  ginhorse,  its 
diameter  a  score  of  feet  or  paces.  But  the  inches  of 
deflection  only  are  measured :  and  it  is  assumed  that 
the  diameter  of  the  ginhorse,  and  that  of  the  planet, 
will  yield  the  same  ratio  when  compared  with  them ! 
Here  lies  the  root  of  many  a  blind,  cruel  condemna- 
tion of  Burnses,  Swifts,  Kousseaus,  which  one  never 
listens  to  with  approval.  Granted,  the  ship  comes 
into  harbor  with  shrouds  and  tackle  damaged;  the 
pilot  is  blameworthy ;  he  has  not  been  all- wise  and  all- 
powerful  :  but  to  know  how  blameworthy,  tell  us  first 
whether  his  voyage  has  been  round  the  Globe,  or  only 
to  Ramsgate  and  the  Isle  of  Dogs.^ 

With  our  readers  in  general,  with  men  of  right 
feeling  anywhere,  we  are  not  required  to  plead  for 
Burns.  In  pitying  admiration  he  lies  enshrined  in 
all  our  hearts,  in  a  far  nobler  mausoleum  than  that 
one  of  marble;  neither  will  his  Works,  even  as  they 
are,  pass  away  from  the  memory  of  men.  While  the 
Shakespeares  and  Miltons  roll  on  like  mighty  rivers 
through  the  country  of  Thought,  bearing  fleets  of 
traffickers  and  assiduous  pearl-fishers  on  their  waves; 
this  little  Valclusa  "^  Fountain  will  also  arrest  our  eye : 
for  this  also  is  of  Nature's  own  and  most  cunning 
workmanship,  bursts  from  the  depths  of  the  earth, 
with  a  full  gushing  current,  into  the  light  of  day; 
and  often  will  the  traveller  turn  aside  to  drink  of  its 
clear  waters,  and  muse  among  its  rocks  and  pines. 

1  Shipping  ports  in  southern  England.  Carlyle  is  writing  from 
the  point  of  view  of  a  Scotchman. 

2  Vauduse  (  Valclusa  in  Italian)  is  a  town  in  southeast  France 
where  the  great  Italian  poet  Petrarch  (1304-1374)  lived  for 
some  time,  and  where  he  did  much  of  his  best  work.  Its  foun- 
tain is  celebrated  in  his  poems. 


^\)t  M\}tt&it>t  iliterature  Series? 


ESSAY  ON  JOHNSON 

BY 

THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY 

EDITED  BY 
WILLIAM  P.  TRENT 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

Boston  :  4  Park  Street ;  New  York  :  85  Fifth  Avenue 
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COPYRIGHT   1906  BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   *  CO. 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


PREFATORY  NOTE. 

The  Essay  on  Johnson,  like  those  on  Goldsmith  and  Bunyanj 
first  appeared  in  the  eighth  edition  of  the  Encyclopoedia  Brir 
tannica  and  is  still  to  be  found  there.  The  editors  of  the  new 
edition  were  wise  in  retaining  what  is  not  only  in  all  probability 
the  best  of  Macaulay's  essays,  but  also  one  of  the  finest  biograph- 
ical sketches  in  any  language.  The  praise  which  Macaulay  gave 
perhaps  too  generously  to  Johnson's  Life  of  Richard  Savage 
should  really  be  reserved  for  his  own  masterly  account  of  the 
great  Doctor's  life  and  writings.  One  might  almost  bestow 
upon  it  the  praise  he  gave  to  Boswell's  Life,  if  compositions  of 
essentially  different  kinds  could  be  profitably  compared.  The 
secret  of  Macaulay's  success  is  not  far  to  seek,  however  much 
one  may  despair  of  equalling  his  performance.  He  knew  his 
subject  thoroughly  and  sympathized  with  him,  and,  as  Matthew 
Arnold  said,  was  for  the  nineteenth  very  much  the  sort  of  man 
that  Dr.  Johnson  was  for  the  eighteenth  century.  In  addition 
his  limited  space  kept  him  from  being  too  discursive,  and  his 
years  of  practice  enabled  him  to  give  to  his  style  a  precision  and 
strength  and  pliability  that,  in  the  Essays  at  least,  it  had  not 
hitherto  attained.  Both  in  substance  and  in  form,  then,  this 
miniature  biography,  for  such  it  is,  represents  Macaulay  at  his 
very  best.  It  is  needless  to  say  more  of  it  and  it  is  equally  need- 
less to  discuss  Dr.  Johnson  when  Macaulay  has  practically  said 
the  last  word  about  him.  Industrious  editors  like  Dr.  Birk- 
beck  Hill  will  continue  to  annotate  Boswell  and  to  bring  small 
facts  to  light,  but  if  they  are  wise  they  will  not  obscure  the 
full-sized  portrait  that  the  inquisitive  little  Scotchman  painted. 
Criticism  of  Johnson's  works  and  an  endeavor  to  give  them 
greater  currency  is,  of  course,  another  matter,  and  such  volumes 
as  Matthew  Arnold's  selected  Lives  of  the  Poets  may  be  thor« 
oughly  recommended.  Complete  editions  of  Johnson's  works 
are  not  often  published,  but  copies  of  existing  editions  are  easily 
obtained,  and  Rasselas,  at  least,  is  to  be  had  in  almost  any  form. 


2  MACAULAY. 

The  latest  modern  lives  are  by  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen  in  the  Eng- 
lish Men  of  Letters  and  by  Colonel  Grant  in  the  Great  Writers. 
For  a  more  explicit  study  of  points  in  the  essay,  the  reader 
will  find  Woodrow  Wilson's  The  State,  HaUam's  Literature  of 
Europe,  Gosse's  Hhitory  of  English  Literature  in  the  Eighteenth 
Century f  and  Lord  Mahon's  History  of  England  under  Queen 
Anne  convenient  books  of  reference. 


1 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


Samuel  Johnson,  one  of  the  most  eminent  Eng- 
lish writers  of  the  eighteenth  century,  was  the  son  of 
Michael  Johnson,  who  was,  at  the  beginning  of  that 
century,  a  magistrate  of  Lichfield,  and  a  bookseller 
of  great  note  in  the  midland  counties.  Michael's 
abilities  and  attainments  seem  to  have  been  consider- 
able. He  was  so  well  acquainted  with  the  contents 
of  the  volumes  which  he  exposed  to  sale,  that  the 
country  rectors  ^  of  Staffordshire  and  Worcestershire 
thought  him  an  oracle  on  points  of  learning.  Be- 
tween him  and  the  clergy,  indeed,  there  was  a  strong 
religious  and  political  sympathy.  He  was  a  zealous 
churchman,  and,  though  he  had  qualified  himself  for 
municipal  office  by  taking  the  oaths  to  the  sovereigns 
in  possession,  was  to  the  last  a  Jacobite  in  heart.  At 
his  house,  a  house  which  is  still  pointed  out  to  every 
traveller  who  visits  Lichfield,  Samuel  was  born  on  the 
18th  of  September,  1709.  In  the  child,  the  physical, 
intellectual,  and  moral  peculiarities  which  afterwards 
distinguished  the  man  were  plainly  discernible,  — 
great  muscular  strength  accompanied  by  much  awk- 
wardness and  many  infirmities;  great  quickness  of 
parts, 2  with  a  morbid  propensity  to  sloth  and  procrag- 

^  Country  rectors  were  often  marvellously  ignorant  in  those 
days  and  earlier.  See  in  Fielding's  Joseph  Andrews  the  charac- 
ter of  Parson  Trulliber. 

*  That  is,  of  mental  endowments. 


4  MACAULAY. 

tination;  a  kind  and  generous  heart,  with  a  gloomy 
and  irritable  temper.  He  had  inherited  from  his 
ancestors?  a  scrofulous  taint,  which  it  was  beyond  the 
power  of  medicine  to  remove.  His  parents  were  weak 
enough  to  believe  that  the  royal  touch  was  a  specific 
for  this  malady.  In  his  third  year  he  was  taken  up 
to  London,  inspected  by  the  court  surgeon,  prayed 
over  by  the  court  chaplains,  and  stroked  and  pre- 
sented with  a  piece  of  gold  by  Queen  Anne.  One  of 
his  earliest  recollections  was  that  of  a  stately  lady  in 
a  diamond  stomacher  and  a  long  black  hood.  Her 
hand  was  applied  in  vain.  The  boy's  features,  which 
were  originally  noble  and  not  irregular,  were  dis- 
torted by  his  malady.  His  cheeks  were  deeply 
scarred.  He  lost  for  a  time  the  sight  of  one  eye,  and 
he  saw  but  very  imperfectly  with  the  other.  But  the 
force  of  his  mind  overcame  every  impediment.  Indo- 
lent as  he  was,  he  acquired  knowledge  with  such  ease 
and  rapidity  that  at  every  school  to  which  he  was 
sent  he  was  soon  the  best  scholar.  From  sixteen 
to  eighteen  he  resided  at  home,  and  was  left  to  his 
own  devices.  He  learned  much  at  this  time,  though 
his  studies  were  without  guidance  and  without  plan. 
He  ransacked  his  father's  shelves,  dipped  into  a  mul- 
titude of  books,  read  what  was  interesting  and  passed 
over  what  was  dull.  An  ordinary  lad  would  have 
acquired  little  or  no  useful  knowledge  in  such  a  way, 
but  much  that  was  dull  to  ordinary  lads  was  interest- 
ing to  Samuel.  He  read  little  Greek,  for  his  profi- 
ciency in  that  language  was  not  such  that  he  could 
take  much  pleasure  in  the  masters  of  Attic  poetry 
and  eloquence.  But  he  had  left  school  a  good  Lat- 
inist,  and  he  soon  acquired,  in  the  large  and  miscel- 
laneous library  of  which  he  now  had  the  command, 


I 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  5 

an  extensive  knowledge  of  Latin  literature.  That 
Augustan  delicacy  of  taste  which  is  the  boast  of  the 
great  public  schools  ^  of  England  he  never  possessed. 
But  he  was  early  familiar  with  some  classical  writers 
who  were  quite  unknown  to  the  best  scholars  in  the 
sixth  form  at  Eton.  He  was  peculiarly  attracted  by 
the  works  of  the  great  restorers  of  learning. ^  Once, 
while  searching  for  some  apples,  he  found  a  huge 
folio  volume  of  Petrarch's  works.  The  name  excited 
his  curiosity,  and  he  eagerly  devoured  hundreds  of 
pages.  Indeed,  the  diction  and  versification  of  his 
own  Latin  compositions  show  that  he  had  paid  at 
least  as  much  attention  to  modern  copies  from  the 
antique  as  to  the  original  models. 

While  he  was  thus  irregularly  educating  himself, 
his  family  was  sinking  into  hopeless  poverty.  Old 
Michael  Johnson  was  much  better  qualified  to  pore 
upon  books,  and  to  talk  about  them,  than  to  trade  in 
them.  His  business  declined;  his  debts  increased; 
it  was  with  difficulty  that  the  daily  expenses  of  his 
household  were  defrayed.  It  was  out  of  his  power 
to  support  his  son  at  either  university,^  but  a  wealth^^ 
neighbor  offered  assistance,  and,  in  reliance  on  prom- 
ises which  proved  to  be  of  very  little  value,  Samuel 
was  entered  at  Pembroke  College,  Oxford.  When 
the  young  scholar  presented  himself  to  the  rulers  of 

^  That  is,  schools  like  Rugby,  Eton,  and  Harrow,  which  are  not 
**  public  "  in  the  American  sense,  but  are  supported  by  endow- 
ments and  fees. 

2  That  is,  the  leaders  of  the  Renaissance,  Petrarch,  Erasmus, 
Sir  Thomas  More,  Colet,  etc. 

*  There  were  only  two  universities  then  in  England,  Oxford 
and  Cambridge,  and  in  popular  opinion  there  are  only  two  now, 
though  London,  Durham,  and  Victoria  have  been  added  within 
the  present  century. 


6  MA  CAUL  AY. 

that  society,^  they  were  amazed  not  more  by  his  un- 
gainly figure  and  eccentric  manners  than  by  the  quan- 
tity of  extensive  and  curious  information  which  he 
had  picked  up  during  many  months  of  desultory  but 
not  unprofitable  study.  On  the  first  day  of  his  resi- 
dence, he  surprised  his  teachers  by  quoting  Macro- 
bins;  2  and  one  of  the  most  learned  among  them 
declared  that  he  had  never  knov/n  a  freshman  of 
equal  attainments. 

At  Oxford,  Johnson  resided  during  about  three 
years.  He  was  poor,  even  to  raggedness;  and  his 
appearance  excited  a  mirth  and  a  pity  which  were 
equally  intolerable  to  his  haughty  spirit.  He  was 
driven  from  the  quadrangle  of  Christ  Church  by  the 
sneering  looks  which  the  members  of  that  aristo- 
cratical  society  cast  at  the  holes  in  his  shoes.  Some 
charitable  person  placed  a  new  pair  at  his  door,  but 
he  spurned  them  away  in  a  fury.  Distress  made 
him,  not  servile,  but  reckless  and  ungovernable.  No 
opulent  gentleman  commoner,^  panting  for  one  and 
twenty,  could  have  treated  the  academical  authorities 
with  more  gross  disrespect.  The  needy  scholar  was 
generally  to  be  seen  under  the  gate  of  Pembroke,  a 
gate  now  adorned  with  his  effigy,*  haranguing  a-  circle 
of  lads,  over  whom,  in  spite  of  his  tattered  gown  and 

^  An  English  college  is  an  endowed  and  incorporated  associa- 
tion of  students.  Its  rulers  are  the  Master  (or  Warden,  etc) 
and  the  fellows. 

2  Died  415  A.  d.,  author  of  a  miscellaneous  collection  of 
antiquarian  and  critical  pieces  entitled  Saturnalia,  but  best  known 
for  his  commentary  on  the  famous  Scipio^s  Dream  of  Cicero. 

*  One  paying  all  charges  and  not  dependent  on  the  college 
funds  for  support. 

*  Pembroke  (founded  1624)  has  had  many  other  distinguished 
sons  —  e.  g.  Shenstone,  Blackstone,  and  Whitefield. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  7 

dirty  linen,  his  wit  and  audacity  gave  him  an  undis- 
puted ascendency.  In  every  mutiny  against  the  dis- 
cipline of  the  college,  he  was  the  ringleader.  Much 
was  pardoned,  however,  to  a  youth  so  highly  distin- 
guished by  abilities  and  acquirements.  He  had  early 
made  himself  known  by  turning  Pope's  "Messiah  "^ 
into  Latin  verse.  The  style  and  rhythm,  indeed,  were 
not  exactly  Virgilian ;  but  the  translation  found  many 
admirers,  and  was  read  with  pleasure  by  Pope  him- 
self. 

The  time  drew  near  at  which  Johnson  would,  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  things,  have  become  a  bach- 
elor of  arts ;  but  he  was  at  the  end  of  his  resources. 
Those  promises  of  support  on  which  he  had  relied  had 
not  been  kept.  His  family  could  do  nothing  for  him. 
His  debts  to  Oxford  tradesmen  were  small  indeed, 
yet  larger  than  he  could  pay.  In  the  autumn  of  1731 
he  was  under  the  necessity  of  quitting  the  univer- 
sity without  a  degree.  In  the  following  winter  his 
lather  died.  The  old  man  left  but  a  pittance,  and 
of  that  pittance  almost  the  whole  was  appropriated 
to  the  support  of  his  widow.  The  property  to  which 
Samuel  succeeded  amounted  to  no  more  than  twenty 
pounds. 

His  life  during  the  thirty  years  which  followed 
was  one  hard  struggle  with  poverty.  The  misery  of 
that  struggle  needed  no  aggravation,  but  was  aggra- 
vated by  the  sufferings  of  an  unsound  body  and  an 
unsound  mind.     Before  the  young  man  left  the  uni- 

^  This  poem,  first  published  in  The  Spectator  for  May  14, 1712, 
was  in  imitation  of  Virgil's  Pollio  {Eclogue  IV.),  and  is  one  of 
the  best  of  Pope's  early  works.     The  concluding  lines  have  fur- 
nished us  with  one  of  the  most  familiar  of  modern  hymns ;  — 
"Rise,  crowned  with  light,  imperial  Salem,  rise  !" 


8 


MACAULAV. 


versity,  his  hereditary  malady  had  broken  forth  in  a 
singularly  cruel  form.  He  had  become  an  incurable 
hypochondriac.  He  said  long  after  that  he  had  been 
mad  all  his  life,  or  at  least  not  perfectly  sane ;  and, 
in  truth,  eccentricities  less  strange  than  his  have  often 
been  thought  grounds  sufficient  for  absolving  felons 
and  for  setting*  aside  wills.  His  grimaces,  his  ges- 
tures, his  mutterings,  sometimes  diverted  and  some- 
times terrified  people  who  did  not  know  him.  At  a 
dinner  table  he  would,  in  a  fit  of  absence,  stoop  down 
and  twitch  off  a  lady's  shoe.  He  would  amaze  a 
drawing-room  by  suddenly  ejaculating  a  clause  of  the 
Lord's  Prayer.  He  would  conceive  an  unintelligible 
aversion  to  a  particular  alley,  and  perform  a  great 
circuit  rather  than  see  the  hateful  place.  He  would 
set  his  heart  on  touching  every  post  in  the  streets 
through  which  he  walked.  If  by  any  chance  he 
missed  a  post,  he  would  go  back  a  hundred  yards 
and  repair  the  omission.  Under  the  influence  of  his 
disease,  his  senses  became  morbidly  torpid  and  his 
imagination  morbidly  active.  At  one  time  he  would 
stand  poring  on  the  town  clock  without  being  able  to 
tell  the  hour.  At  another  he  would  distinctly  hear 
his  mother,  who  was  many  miles  off,  calling  him  by 
his  name.  But  this  was  not  the  worst.  A  deep  mel- 
ancholy took  possession  of  him,  and  gave  a  dark  tinge 
to  all  his  views  of  human  nature  and  of  human  des- 
tiny. Such  wretchedness  as  he  endured  has  driven 
many  men  to  shoot  themselves  or  drown  themselves. 
But  he  was  under  no  temptation  to  commit  suicide. 
He  was  sick  of  life,  but  he  was  afraid  of  death ;  and 
he  shuddered  at  every  sight  or  sound  which  reminded 
him  of  the  inevitable  hour.  In  religion  he  found  but 
little  comfort  during  his  long  and  frequent  fits  of 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  9 

dejection,  for  his  religion  partook  of  his  own  charac- 
ter. The  light  from  heaven  shone  on  him  indeed, 
but  not  in  a  direct  line,  or  with  its  own  pure  splen- 
dor. The  rays  had  to  struggle  through  a  disturbing 
medium:  they  reached  him  refracted,  dulled,  and 
discolored  by  the  thick  gloom  which  had  settled  on 
his  soul;  and,  though  they  might  be  sufficiently  cleai 
to  guide  him,  were  too  dim  to  cheer  him. 

With  such  infirmities  of  body  and  of  mind,  this 
celebrated  man  was  left,  at  two  and  twenty,  to  fight 
his  way  through  the  world.  He  remained  during 
about  five  years  in  the  midland  counties.  At  Lich- 
field, his  birthplace  and  his  early  home,  he  had  in- 
herited some  friends  and  acquired  others.  He  was 
kindly  noticed  by  Henry  Hervey,^  a  gay  officer  of 
noble  family,  who  happened  to  be  quartered  there. 
Gilbert  Walmesley,^  registrar  of  the  ecclesiastical 
court  of  the  diocese,  —  a  man  of  distinguished  parts, 
learning,  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  —  did  himself 
honor  by  patronizing  the  young  adventurer,  whose 
repulsive  person,  unpolished  manners,  and  squalid 
garb  moved  many  of  the  petty  aristocracy  of  the 
neighborhood  to  laughter  or  to  disgust.  At  Lich- 
field, however,  Johnson  could  find  no  way  of  earning 
a  livelihood.  He  became  usher  of  a  grammar  school  ^ 
in  Leicestershire;  he  resided  as  a  humble  companion 
in  the  house  of  a  country  gentleman ;  *  but  a  life  of 

1  Born  in  1700  ;  brother  of  Lord  John  Hervey. 

2  (1680-1751).  At  the  end  of  his  Life  of  the  poet  Edmund 
Smith,  Johnson  paid  a  noble  tribute  to  this  early  friend. 

*  That  is,  assistant  master  in  a  school  in  which  Latin  and 
Greek  were  the  chief  studies.  The  school  was  that  of  Market 
Bosworth.     He  became  usher  in  July,  1732. 

*  Sir  Wolstan  Dixie,  patron  of  the  school. 


10  MACAULAY. 

dependence  was  insupportable  to  his  haughty  spirit. 
He  repaired  to  Birmingham,  and  there  earned  a  few 
guineas  by  literary  drudgery.  In  that  town  he 
printed  a  translation,  little  noticed  at  the  time  and 
long  forgotten,  of  a  Latin  book  about  Abyssinia.^ 
He  then  put  forth  proposals  for  publishing  by  sub- 
scription the  poems  of  Politian,^  with  notes  containing 
a  history  of  modern  Latin  verse;  but  subscriptions 
did  not  come  in,  and  the  volume  never  appeared. 

While  leading  this  vagrant  and  miserable  life, 
Johnson  fell  in  love.  The  object  of  iiis  passion  was 
Mrs.  Elizabeth  Porter,  a  widow  who  had  children 
as  old  as  himself.  To  ordinary  spectators,  the  lady 
appeared  to  be  a  short,  fat,  coarse  woman,  painted 
half  an  inch  thick,  dressed  in  gaudy  colors,  and  fond 
of  exhibiting  provincial  airs  and  graces  which  were 
not  exactly  those  of  the  Queensberrys  and  Lepels.^ 
To  Johnson,  however,  whose  passions  were  strong, 
whose  eyesight  was  too  weak  to  distinguish  ceruse 
from  natural  bloom,  and  who  had  seldom  or  never 
been  in  the  same  room  with  a  woman  of  real  fashion, 
his  Tetty,  as  he  called  her,  was  the  most  beautiful, 
graceful,  and  accomplished  of  her  sex.  That  his  ad- 
miration was  unfeigned  cannot  be  doubted,  for  she 
was  as  poor  as  himself.  She  accepted,  with  a  readi- 
ness which  did  her  little  honor,  the  addresses  of  a 

^  This  was  not  a  Latin  book,  but  a  French  translation  of  a 
work  by  Lobo  (1593-1678),  a  Portuguese  Jesuit. 

2  Politian  (Angelo  Ambrogini,  1454-1494)  was  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  scholars  and  teachers  of  the  Renaissance.  He  not 
only  succeeded  in  Latin  verse,  but  was  also  an  able  Italian  poet. 

^  Mary  Lepel  (1700-1768),  who  married  Lord  John  Hervey, 
author  of  the  Memoirs  of  the  Court  of  George  II.,  and  Catherine 
Hyde  (died  1777),  afterwards  Duchess  of  Queensberry,  were 
noted  beauties  of  the  period,  and  friends  of  Pope  and  Gay. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  11 

suitor  who  might  have  been  her  son.  The  marriage, 
however,  in  spite  of  occasional  wranglings,  proved 
happier  than  might  have  been  expected.  The  lover 
continued  to  be  under  the  illusions  of  the  wedding 
day  till  the  lady  died,  in  her  sixty -fourth  year.  On 
her  monument  he  placed  an  inscription  extolling  the 
charms  of  her  person  and  of  her  manners;  and  when, 
long  after  her  decease,  he  had  occasion  to  mention 
her,  he  exclaimed,  with  a  tenderness  half  ludicrous, 
half  pathetic,  "Pretty  creature!  " 

His  marriage  made  it  necessary  for  him  to  exert 
himself  more  strenuously  than  he  had  hitherto  done.^ 
He  took  a  house  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  native 
town,  and  advertised  for  pupils. ^  But  eighteen 
months  passed  away,  and  only  three  pupils  came  to 
his  academy.  Indeed,  his  appearance  was  so  strange, 
and  his  temper  so  violent,  that  his  schoolroom  must 
have  resembled  an  ogre's  den.  Nor  was ^ the  tawdry, 
painted  grandmother  whom  he  called  his  Titty  well 
qualified  to  make  provision  for  the  comfort  of  young 
gentlemen.  David  Garrick,^  who  was  one  of  the 
pupils,  used  many  years  later  to  throw  the  best  com- 
pany of  London  into  convulsions  of  laughter  by  mim- 
icking the  endearments  of  this  extraordinary  pair. 

At  length  Johnson,  in  the  twenty-eighth  year  of 
his  age,  determined  to  seek  his  fortune  in  the  capital 
as    a  literary   adventurer.     He   set  out  with  a  few 

1  The  marriage  was  performed  July  9, 1735,  at  Derby,  though 
Mrs.  Porter  Hved  at  Birmingham,  to  which  place  Johnson  had 
returned. 

2  In  1736. 

8  The  great  actor  (1716-1779),  from  whom  many  of  the  un- 
pleasing  details  about  Mrs.  Porter  were,  as  Macaulay  intimates, 
obtained  by  Boswell. 


12  MACAULAY. 

guineas,  three  acts  of  the  tragedy  of  "Irene"  in 
manuscript,  and  two  or  three  letters  of  introduction 
from  his  friend  Walmesley. 

Never  since  literature  became  a  calling  in  England 
had  it  been  a  less  gainful  calling  than  at  the  time 
when  Johnson  took  up  his  residence  in  London.    In 
the  preceding  generation,  ^  a  writer  of  eminent  merit 
was  sure  to  be  munificently  rewarded  by  the  govern- 
ment.    The  least  that  he  could  expect  was  a  pension 
or  a  sinecure  place;  and,  if  he  showed  any  aptitude 
for  politics,  he  might  hope  to  be  a  member  of  Parlia 
ment,  a  lord  of  the  treasury,  an  ambassador,  a  secre 
tary  of  state. ^     It  would  be  easy,  on  the  other  hand, 
to  name  several  writers  ^  of  the  nineteenth  century,  of 
whom  the  least  successful  has  received  forty  thousand 
pounds  from  the  booksellers.     But  Johnson  entered 
on  his  vocation  in  the  most  dreary  part  of  the  dreary 
interval  which  separated  two  ages  of  prosperity.    Lit 
erature  had  ceased  to  flourish   under  the   patronage 
of  the  great,  and  had  not  begun  to  flourish  under  the 
patronage  of  the  public.     One  man  of  letters,  indeed. 
Pope,  had  acquired  by  his  pen  what  was  then  consid 
ered  as  a  handsome  fortune,  and  lived  on  a  footing 
of  equality  with  nobles  and  ministers  of  state.     But 
this  was  a  solitary  exception.     Even  an  author  whose 
reputation  was  established,  and  whose  works  were  pop 
ular  —  such  an  author  as  Thomson,^  whose  "  Seasons ' 

1  That  is,  the  reigns  of  William  III.  and  Anne.  See  the 
essay  on  Addison. 

2  With  regard  to  literary  men  who  i:ose  in  politics,  the  stu- 
dent should  remember  that  Steele  was  a  member  of  Parliament, 
Prior  an  ambassador,  and  Addison  a  secretary  of  state. 

^  For  example,  Scott,  Byron,  Macaulay. 
*  For  James  Thomson,  the  poet  (1700-1748)  and  Henry  Field- 
ing (1707-1754),  the  great  novelist,  see  Gosse.    Fielding's  early 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  13 

were  in  every  library;  such  an  author  as  Fielding, 
whose  "Pasquin"  had  had  a  greater  run  thq.n  any 
drama  since  the  "Beggar's  Opera  "^  —  was  some- 
times glad  to  obtain,  by  pawning  his  best  coat,  the 
means  of  dining  on  tripe  at  a  cookshop  underground, 
where  he  could  wipe  his  hands,  after  his  greasy  meal, 
on  the  back  of  a  Newfoundland  dog.  It  is  easy,  there- 
fore, to  imagine  what  humiliations  and  privations  must 
have  awaited  the  novice  who  had  still  to  earn  a  name. 
One  of  the  publishers  to  whom  Johnson  applied  for 
employment  measured  with  a  scornful  eye  that  athletic 
though  uncouth  frame,  and  exclaimed,  "You  had 
better  get  a  porter's  knot  ^  and  carry  trunks."  Nor 
was  the  advice  bad,  for  a  porter  was  likely  to  be  as 
plentifully  fed  and  as  comfortably  lodged  as  a  poet. 

Some  time  appears  to  have  elapsed  before  Johnson 
was  able  to  form  any  literary  connection  from  which 
he  could  expect  more  than  bread  for  the  day  which 
was  passing  over  him.  He,  never  forgot  the  gener- 
osity with  which  Hervey,  who  was  now  residing  in 
London,  relieved  his  wants  during  this  time  of  trial. 
"Harry  Hervey,"  said  the  old  philosopher  many 
years  later,  "was  a  vicious  man,  but  he  was  very 
kind  to  me.  If  you  call  a  dog  Hervey,  I  shall  love 
him."    At  Hervey 's  table,  Johnson  sometimes  enjoyed 

work  was  as  a  dramatist,  but  none  of  his  plays,  including  the 
satiric  comedy  mentioned,  is  read  to-day,  except  possibly  his 
Tragedy  of  Tragedies^  a  parody  which  celebrates  Tom  Thumb. 

^  A  famous  parody  on  the  Italian  opera,  written  by  John  Gay 
(1685-1732)  on  a  hint  from  Swift.  It  was  produced  in  1728, 
and  had  an  immense  run,  its  chief  characters  representing  high- 
waymen and  pickpockets.  For  Gay,  whose  Fables  and  Black- 
eyed  Susan  are  still  read,  and  who  was  a  delightful  man,  see 
Gosse. 

2  A  pad  worn  on  the  head. 


14  MACAULAY. 

feasts  which  were  made  more  agreeable  by  contrast. 
But  in  general  he  dined,  and  thought  that  he  dined 
well,  on  sixpennyworth  of  meat  and  a  pennyworth 
of  bread  at  an  alehouse  near  Drury  Lane.^ 

The  effect  of  the  privations  and  sufferings  which 
he  endured  at  this  time  was  discernible  to  the  last  in 
his  temper  and  his  deportment.  His  manners  had 
never  been  courtly.  They  now  became  almost  sav- 
age. Being  frequently  under  the  necessity  of  wearing 
shabby  coats  and  dirty  shirts,  he  became  a  confirmed 
sloven.  Being  often  very  hungry  when  he  sat  down 
to  his  meals,  he  contracted  a  habit  of  eating  with 
ravenous  greediness.  Even  to  the  end  of  his  life, 
and  even  at  the  tables  of  the  great,  the  sight  of  food 
affected  him .  as  it  affects  wild  beasts  and  birds  of 
prey.  His  taste  in  cookery,  formed  in  subterranean 
ordinaries^  and  alamode  beef  shops,  ^  was  far  from 
delicate.  Whenever  he  was  so  fortunate  as  to  have 
near  him  a  hare  that  had  been  kept  too  long,  or  a 
meat  pie  made  with  rancid  butter,  he  gorged  himself 
with  such  violence  that  his  veins  swelled  and  the 
moisture  broke  out  on  his  forehead.  The  affronts 
which  his  poverty  emboldened  stupid  and  low-minded 
men  to  offer  to  him,  would  have  broken  a  mean  spirit 
into  sycophancy,  but  made  him  rude  even  to  fero- 
city. Unhappily,  the  insolence  which,  while  it  was 
defensive,  was  pardonable  and  in  some  sense  respect- 

^  A  famous  street  (not  then  or  now  aristocratic)  in  the  heart 
of  London.  The  student  may  consult  books  by  Hare,  Loftie* 
and  Sir  Walter  Besant,  in  order  to  learn  something  about  historic 
London. 

2  Eating  houses,  where  a  fixed  rate  is  charged  for  meals. 

^  Where  beef  a  la  mode  (i.  c,  larded  with  spices,  vegetableSi 
wine,  etc.)  was  sold. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  15 

able,  accompanied  him  into  societies  where  he  was 
treated  with  courtesy  and  kindness.  He  was  repeat- 
edly provoked  into  striking  those  who  had  taken 
liberties  with  him.  All  the  sufferers,  however,  were 
wise  enough  to  abstain  from  talking  about  their  beat- 
ings, except  Osborne,  the  most  rapacious  and  brutal 
of  booksellers,  who  proclaimed  everywhere  that  he 
had  been  knocked  down  by  the  huge  fellow  whom  he 
had  hired  to  puff  the  Harleian  Library.^ 

About  a  year  after  Johnson  had  begun  to  reside  in 
London,  he  was  fortunate  enough  to  obtain  regular 
employment  from  Cave,^  an  enterprising  and  intelli- 
gent bookseller,  who  was  proprietor  and  editor  of  "  The 
Gentleman's  Magazine."  That  journal,  just  entering 
on  the  ninth  year  of  its  long  existence,  was  the  only 
periodical  work  in  the  kingdom  which  then  had  what 
would  now  be  called  a  large  circulation.  It  was, 
indeed,  the  chief  source  of  parliamentary  intelligence. 
It  was  not  then  safe,  even  during  a  recess,  to  publish 
an  account  of  the  proceedings  of  either  House  without 
some  disguise.  Cave,  however,  ventured  to  entertain 
his  readers  with  what  he  called  "Reports  of  the  De- 
bates of  the  Senate  of  Lilliput."^  France  was  Ble- 
fuscu;  London  was  Mildendo;  pounds  were  sprugs; 

^  A  famous  collection  of  books  and  manuscripts  made  by  Rob- 
ert Harley,  Earl  of  Oxford  (1661-1724),  the  rival  of  Marlbor- 
ough and  Godolphin,  and  bought  by  Osborne,  who  hired  Dr. 
Johnson  to  assist  in  cataloguing  it. 

-  Edward  Cave  (1691-1754),  under  the  name  of  "  Sylvanus 
Urban,"  founded,  in  1731,  J'he  Gentleman's  Magazine  (which  is 
still  running,  though  changed  in  plan,  and  the  back  volumes  of 
which  are  a  mine  of  miscellaneous  information).  Johnson  wrote 
a  good  Latin  ode  to  him,  and  a  shoit  sketch  of  him. 

'^  This  and  the  following  queer  names  are  taken  from  Gulli-^ 
ver's  Travels.  For  an  account  of  how  news  was  circulated  at  this 
period,  and  earlier,  see  Macaulay's  History,  chap.  ill. 


16  MACAULAY. 

the  Duke  of  Newcastle  ^  was  the  Nardac  secretary  of 
state;  Lord  Hardwicke  was  the  Hugo  Hickrad;  and 
William  Pulteney  was  Wingul  Pulnub.  To  write 
';he  speeches  was,  during  several  years,  the  business 
of  Johnson.  He  was  generally  furnished  with  notes 
■ — meagre  indeed  and  inaccurate  —  of  what  had  been 
aaid ;  but  sometimes  he  had  to  find  argument  and  elo- 
quence, both  for  the  ministry  and  for  the  opposition. 
He  was  himself  a  Tory,  not  from  rational  conviction, 
—  for  his  serious  opinion  was,  that  one  form  of  gov- 
ernment was  just  as  good  or  as  bad  as  another,  —  but 
from  mere  passion,  such  as  inflamed  the  Capulets 
against  the  Montagues,^  or  the  Blues  of  the  Roman 
circus  against  the  Greens.^  In  his  infancy  he  had 
heard  so  much  talk  about  the  villanies  of  the  Whigs 
and  the  dangers  of  the  Church,  that  he  had  become 
a  furious  partisan  when  he  could  scarcely  speak. 
Before  he  was  three,  he  had  insisted  on  being  taken 
to  hear  Sacheverell*  preach  at  Lichfield  Cathedral, 

1  Thomas  Pelham.  For  this  fatuous  statesman  (1693-1768) 
Bee  Macaulay's  essays  on  Pitt  and  Chatham.  Philip  Yorke, 
Earl  of  Hardwicke  (1690-1764),  was  a  famous  Lord  Chancellor. 
William  Pulteney,  Earl  of  Bath  (1682  ?-1764),  was  a  leader  of 
a  Whig  faction  against  Walpole. 

2  See  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

8  See  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall,  chap.  xl.  The  drivers  in  the 
Koman  circus  wore  liveries,  —  white,  red,  green,  and  blue,  — 
and  the  populace  took  sides  according  to  colors.  Many  riots 
resulted,  and  the  feuds  were  transferred  to  Constantinople, 
where  the  great  Nika  riots  of  532  A.  d.  took  place. 

*  The  Rev.  Dr.  Henry  Sacheverell  (1672-1724)  was  a  foolish 
High  Churchman,  who  in  1709  preached  two  sermons  of  an 
intemperate  character  against  the  Whigs.  He  was  impeached, 
tried  by  the  Peers,  and  found  guilty,  with  the  natural  result  that 
lie  became  a  hero  with  the  Tories,  and  had  not  a  little  to  do 
with  the  Whig  downfall. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  17 

and  had  listened  to  the  sermon  with  as  much  re- 
spect, and  probably  with  as  much  intelligence,  as  any 
Staffordshire  squire  in  the  congregation.  The  work 
which  had  been  begun  in  the  nursery  had  been  com- 
pleted by  the  university.  Oxford,  when  Johnson 
resided  there,  was  the  most  Jacobitical  place  in  Eng- 
land ;  and  Pembroke  was  one  of  the  most  Jacobitical 
colleges  in  Oxford.  The  prejudices  which  he  brought 
up  to  London  were  scarcely  less  absurd  than  those  of 
his  own  Tom  Tempest.^  Charles  II.  and  James  II. 
were  two  of  the  best  kings  that  ever  reigned.  Laud, 
a  poor  creature  who  never  did,  said,  or  wrote  any- 
thing indicating  more  than  the  ordinary  capacity  of 
an  old  woman,  was  a  prodigy  of  parts  and  learning, 
over  whose  tomb  Art  and  Genius  ^  still  continued  to 
weep.  Hampden  ^  deserved  no  more  honorable  name 
than  that  of  "the  zealot  of  rebellion."  Even  the 
ship  money,  condemned  not  less  decidedly  by  Falk- 
land *  and  Clarendon  ^  than  by  the  bitterest  Round- 
heads, Johnson  would  not  pronounce  to  have  been  an 
unconstitutional  impost.  Under  a  government  the 
mildest  that  had  ever  been  known  in  the  world,  under 
a  government  which  allowed  to  the  people  an  unpre- 
cedented liberty  of  speech  and  action,  he  fancied  that 
he  was  a  slave ;  he  assailed  the  ministry  with  obloquy 

^  See  Johnson's  IdleVy  No.  10. 

2  See  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  1.  173. 

3  John  Hampden  (1594-1643),  the  famous  Puritan  states- 
man, who  resisted  the  ship-money  tax,  and  was  killed  in  a  skir- 
mish with  the  Royalists. 

**  Lucius  Gary,  Viscount  Falkland  (1610?-1643),  poet,  scholar, 
and  one  of  the  noblest  of  Charles  l.'s  adherents.  See  Matthew 
Arnold's  essay  on  him. 

*  The  great  Lord  Chancellor  and  historian. 


18  MACAULAY. 

which  refuted  itself,  and  regretted  the  lost  freedom 
and  happiness  of  those  golden  days  in  which  a  writer 
who  had  taken  but  one  tenth  part  of  the  license  al- 
lowed to  him  would  have  been  pilloried,  mangled  with 
the  shears,  whipped  at  the  cart's  tail,^  and  flung  into 
a  noisome  dungeon  to  die.  He  hated  dissenters  and 
stockjobbers,  the  excise  and  the  army,  septennial  par- 
liaments, and  continental  connections. ^  He  long  had 
an  aversion  to  the  Scotch,  —  an  aversion  of  which  he 
could  not  remember  the  commencement,  but  which, 
he  owned,  had  probably  originated  in  his  abhorrence 
of  the  conduct  of  the  nation  during  the  Great  Rebel- 
lion. It  is  easy  to  guess  in  what  manner  debates  on 
great  party  questions  were  likely  to  be  reported  by 
a  man  whose  judgment  was  so  much  disordered  by 
party  spirit.  A  show  of  fairness  was,  indeed,  neces- 
sary to  the  prosperity  of  the  magazine.  But  Johnson 
long  afterwards  owned  that,  though  he  had  saved 
appearances,  he  had  taken  care  that  the  Whig  dogs 
should  not  have  the  best  of  it;  and,  in  fact,  every 
passage  which  has  lived,  every  passage  which  bears 
the  marks  of  his  higher  faculties,  is  put  into  the 
mouth  of  some  member  of  the  opposition.^ 

A  few  weeks  after  Johnson  had  entered  on  these 
obscure  labors,  he  published  a  work  which  at  once 
placed  him  high  among  the  writers  of  his  age.     It  is 

1  Obsolete  methods  of  punishment. 

2  All  objects  of  Tory  invective.  Dissenters,  of  course,  were  op- 
posed to  the  church ;  stockjobbers  to  the  landed  interests ;  the  ex- 
cise was  favored  by  Walpole;  the  army  was  due  to  William  III.; 
limiting  the  duration  of  Parliament  (to  seven  years)  was  a  Whig 
measure  ;  connections  with  foreign  countries,  especially  with  Hol- 
land, formed  a  part  of  Whig  policy,  —  though  Johnson  would 
have  done  well  to  remember  the  Treaty  of  Dover. 

*  That  is,  the  Tories,  the  party  out  of  power. 


I 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  W 

probable  that  what  he  had  suffered  during  his  first 
year  in  London  had  often  reminded  him  of  some 
parts  of  that  noble  poem  in  which  Juvenal  ^  had  de- 
scribed the  misery  and  degradation  of  a  needy  man 
of  letters,  lodged  among  the  pigeons'  nests  in  the  tot- 
tering garrets  which  overhung  the  streets  of  Rome. 
Pope's  admirable  imitations  of  Horace's  "Satires" 
and  "Epistles"  had  recently  appeared,  were  in  every 
hand,  and  were  by  many  readers  thought  superior  to 
the  originals.  What  Pope  had  done  for  Horace,  John- 
son aspired  to  do  for  Juvenal.  The  enterprise  was 
bold,  and  yet  judicious.  For  between  Johnson  and 
Juvenal  there  was  much  in  common, ^  —  much  more, 
certainly,  than  between  Pope  and  Horace. 

Johnson's  "London  "  appeared  without  his  name  in 
May,  1738.  He  received  only  ten  guineas  for  this 
stately  and  vigorous  poem;  but  the  sale  was  rapid 
and  the  success  complete.  A  second  edition  was  re- 
quired within  a  week.  Those  small  critics  who  are 
always  desirous  to  lower  established  reputations  ran 
about  proclaiming  that  the  anonymous  satirist  was 
superior  to  Pope  in  Pope's  own  peculiar  department 
of  literature.  It  ought  to  be  remembered,  to  the 
honor  of  Pope,  that  he  joined  heartily  in  the  applause 
with  which  the  appearance  of  a  rival  genius  was  wel- 
comed. He  made  inquiries  about  the  author  of  "Lon- 
don." Such  a  man,  he  said,  could  not  long  be  con- 
cealed. The  name  was  soon  discovered;  and  Pope, 
with  great  kindness,  exerted  himself  to  obtain  an 
academical  degree,  and  the  mastership  of  a  grammar 

^  Juvenars  third  satire  is  meant.  Dryden  had  translated  it, 
along  with  four  others,  and  Oldham  had  applied  it  to  London 
as  Boileau  had  done  to  Paris. 

2  For  example,  a  certain  severity  of  temper  and  morals. 


I 


^0  MACAULAY. 

school,  for  the  poor  young  poet.     The  attempt  failed, 
and  Johnson  remained  a  bookseller's  hack. 

It  does  not  appear  that  these  two  men  —  the  most 
eminent  writer  of  the  generation  which  was  going 
out,  and  the  most  eminent  writer  of  the  generation 
which  was  coming  in  —  ever  saw  each  other.  They 
lived  in  very  different  circles,  —  one  surrounded  by 
dukes  and  earls,  the  other  by  starving  pamphleteers 
and  index-makers.  Among  Johnson's  associates  at 
this  time  may  be  mentioned  Boyse,^  who,  when  his 
shirts  were  pledged,  scrawled  Latin  verses,  sitting  up 
in  bed  with  his  arms  through  two  holes  in  his  blan- 
kets, who  composed  very  respectable  sacred  poetry 
when  he  was  sober,  and  who  was  at  last  run  over  by 
a  hackney  coach  when  he  was  drunk;  Hoole,^  sur- 
named  the  metaphysical  tailor,  who,  instead  of  attend- 
ing to  his  measures,  used  to  trace  geometrical  dia- 
grams on  the  board  where  he  sat  cross-legged;  and 
the  penitent  impostor,  George  Psalmanazar,^  who, 
after  poring  all  day,  in  a  humble  lodging,  on  the 
folios  of  Jewish  rabbis  and  Christian  fathers,  in- 
dulged himself  at  night  with  literary  and  theological 
conversation  at  an  alehouse  in  the  city.  But  the 
most  remarkable  of  the  persons  with  whom  at  this 
time   Johnson   consorted   was   Eichard   Savage,*   an 

1  Samuel  Boyse  (1708-1749). 

2  Uncle  of  John  Hoole,  the  translator  of  Tasso  and  Ariosto, 
who  was  also  a  friend  of  Johnson. 

2  The  famous  impostor  (1679  ?-1763),  who  pretended  to  be  a 
native  of  Formosa,  and  wrote  an  account  of  that  island  which 
imposed  on  a  great  many  people.  He  was  born  in  France,  but 
kept  his  real  name  concealed. 

*  (1698-1743),  reputed  to  be  the  illegitimate  son  of  the  Coun- 
tess of  Macclesfield.  He  was  a  poet  interesting  rather  as  fore- 
shadowing future  tendencies  of  English  verse  than  as  writing 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  21 

earl's  son,  a  shoemaker's  apprentice,  who  had  seen 
life  in  all  its  forms,  who  had  feasted  among  blue  rib- 
bands in  St.  James's  Square,^  and  had  lain  with  fifty 
pounds'  weight  of  irons  on  his  legs  in  the  condemned 
ward  of  Newgate. ^  This  man  had,  after  many  vicis- 
situdes of  fortune,  sunk  at  last  into  abject  and  hope- 
less poverty.  His  pen  had  failed  him.  His  patrons 
had  been  taken  away  by  death,  or  estranged  by  the 
riotous  profusion  with  which  he  squandered  their 
bounty,  and  the  ungrateful  insolence  with  which  he 
rejected  their  advice.  He  now  lived  by  begging.  He 
dined  on  venison  and  champagne  whenever  he  had 
been  so  fortunate  as  to  borrow  a  guinea.  If  his 
questing  had  been  unsuccessful,  he  appeased  the  rage 
of  hunger  with  some  scraps  of  broken  meat,  and  lay 
down  to  rest  under  the  piazza  of  Covent  Garden  ^  in 
warm  weather,  and  in  cold  weather  as  near  as  he 
could  get  to  the  furnace  of  a  glasshouse.*  Yet,  in  his 
misery,  he  was  still  an  agreeable  companion.  He 
had  an  inexhaustible  store  of  anecdotes  about  that 
gay  and  brilliant  world  from  which  he  was  now  an  out- 
cast. He  had  observed  the  great  men  of  both  parties 
in  hours  of  careless  relaxation,  had  seen  the  leaders 
of  opposition  without  the  mask  of  patriotism,  and  had 
heard  the  prime  minister  ^  roar  with  laughter  and  tell 

anything  worth  the  general  reader's  attention.  But  the  student 
should  by  all  means  read  Johnson's  Life  of  him. 

^  That  is,  with  Knights  of  the  Garter,  in  one  of  the  most  aris- 
tocratic quarters  of  London. 

2  The  noted  prison. 

8  Originally  "  Convent  "  Garden,  best  known  through  its  mar- 
ket and  theatre. 

*  Sometimes  a  conservatory,  though  the  word  is  here  used  for 
*  glass-works.'* 

*  Sir  Robert  Walpole. 


22 


MACAULAY. 


stories  not  over-decent.  During  some  months,  Sav- 
age lived  in  the  closest  familiarity  with  Johnson ;  and 
then  the  friends  parted,  not  without  tears.  Johnson 
remained  in  London  to  drudge  for  Cave.  Savage 
went  to  the  west  of  England,  lived  there  as  he  had 
lived  everywhere,  and  in  1743  died,  penniless  and 
heart-broken,  in  Bristol  jail. 

Soon  after  his  death,  while  the  public  curiosity  was 
strongly  excited  about  his  extraordinary  character 
and  his  not  less  extraordinary  adventures,  a  life  of 
him  appeared,  widely  different  from  the  catchpenny 
lives  of  eminent  men  which  were  then  a  staple  article 
of  manufacture  in  Grub  Street.^  The  style  was,  in- 
deed, deficient  in  ease  and  variety;  and  the  writer 
was  evidently  too  partial  to  the  Latin  element  of  our 
language.  But  the  little  work,  with  all  its  faults, 
was  a  masterpiece.  No  finer  specimen  of  literary 
biography  2  existed  in  any  language,  living  or  dead; 
and  a  discerning  critic  might  have  confidently  pre- 
dicted that  the  author  was  destined  to  be  the  founder 
of  a  new  school  of  English  eloquence. 

The  Life  of  Savage  was  anonymous,  but  it  was 
well  known  in  literary  circles  that  Johnson  was  the 
writer.  During  the  three  years  which  followed,  he 
produced  no  important  work  ;  but  he  was  not,  and 
indeed  could  not  be,  idle.  The  fame  of  his  abilities 
and  learning  continued  to  grow.     Warburton^  pro- 

^  A  street  "  much  inhabited  by  writers  of  small  histories^ 
dictionaries,  and  temporary  poems  ;  whence  any  mean  produc* 
tion  is  called  grubstreet."     Johnson's  Dictionary. 

^  Does  this  mean  a  biography  considered  as  a  piece  of  litera- 
ture, or  a  biography  of  a  literary  person  ?  If  the  former,  the 
praise  will  seem  extravagant  to  those  who  admire  the  Agricola 
of  Tacitus. 

*  The   famous   William  Warburton,   Bishop   of  Gloucestei^ 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  23 

nounced  him  a  man  of  parts  and  genius,  and  the 
praise  of  Warburjbon  was  then  no  light  thing.  Such 
was  Johnson's  reputation  that  in  1747  several  emi- 
nent booksellers  combined  to  employ  him  in  the  ardu- 
ous work  of  preparing  a  "Dictionary  of  the  English 
Language,"  in  two  folio  volumes.  The  sum  which 
they  agreed  to  pay  him  was  only  fifteen  hundred  guin- 
eas, and  out  of  this  sum  he  had  to  pay  several  poor 
men  of  letters  who  assisted  him  in  the  humbler  parts 
of  his  task. 

The  Prospectus  of  the  Dictionary  he  addressed  to 
the  Earl  of  Chesterfield. ^  Chesterfield  had  long  been 
celebrated  for  the  politeness  of  his  manners,  the  bril- 
liancy of  his  wit,  and  the  delicacy  of  his  taste.  He 
was  acknowledged  to  be  the  finest  speaker  in  the 
House  of  Lords.  He  had  recently  governed  Ireland, 
at  a  momentous  conjuncture, ^  with  eminent  firmness, 
wisdom,  and  humanity;  and  he  had  since  become 
secretary  of  state.  He  received  Johnson's  homage 
with  the  most  winning  affability,  and  requited  it  with 
a  few  guineas,  bestowed,  doubtless,  in  a  very  grace- 
ful manner,  but  was  by  no  means  desirous  to  see  all 
his  carpets  blackened  with  the  London  mud,  and  his 

(1698-1779),  a  noted  controversialist  and  dogmatic  critic  whose 
reputation,  immense  during  his  lifetime,  has  dwindled  almost  to 
nothing. 

1  The  Earl  of  Chesterfield  (Philip  Dormer  Stanhope,  1694- 
1773)  is  chiefly  renowned  as  a  man  of  fashion,  and  as  the  author 
of  a  series  of  Letters  to  his  son  which  is  still  a  classic  manual 
of  conduct.  Johnson  remarked  of  this  famous  book  that  it 
taught  the  morals  of  a  courtesan  and  the  manners  of  a  dancing- 
master.  Chesterfield  was  an  accomplished  diplomat,  and  fore- 
saw the  coming  of  the  French  Revolution. 

^  As  Lord  Lieutenant  about  1745.  He  kept  down  factions  and 
bribery,  and  established  schools  and  manufactories. 


k 


24  MA  CAUL  AY. 

soups  and  wines  thrown  to  right  and  left  over  the 
gowns  of  fine  ladies  and  the  waistcoats  of  fine  gen- 
tlemen, bj  an  absent,  awkward  scholar,  who  gave 
strange  starts  and  uttered  strange  growls,  —  who 
dressed  like  a  scarecrow  and  ate  like  a  cormorant. 
During  some  time  Johnson  continued  to  call  on  his 
patron,  1  but,  after  being  repeatedly  told  by  the  porter 
that  his  lordship  was  not  at  home,  took  the  hint,  and 
ceased  to  present  himself  at  the  inhospitable  door. 

Johnson  had  flattered  himself  that  he  should  have 
completed  his  Dictionary  by  the  end  of  1750,  but  it 
was  not  till  1755  that  he  at  length  gave  his  huge  vol- 
umes to  the  world.  During  the  seven  years  which 
he  passed  in  the  drudgery  of  penning  definitions  and 
marking  quotations  for  transcription,  he  sought  for 
relaxation  in  literary  labor  of  a  more  agreeable  kind. 
In  1749  he  published  "The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes," 
an  excellent  imitation  of  the  Tenth  Satire  of  Juvenal. 
It  is  in  truth  not  easy  to  say  whether  the  palm  be- 
longs to  the  ancient  or  to  the  modern  poet.  The 
couplets  2  in  which  the  fall  of  Wolsey  is  described, 
though  lofty  and  sonorous,  are  feeble  when  compared 
with  the  wonderful  lines  which  bring  before  us  all 

*  Down  to  the  time  of  Pope,  and  later,  the  patron,  a  noble- 
man or  other  distinguished  personage  who  would  pay  for  the 
honor  of  a  dedication,  was  necessary  to  the  author,  and  was 
celebrated  with  a  flattery  that  seems  loathsome  to  us  now.  For- 
tunately, the  growth  of  a  reading  public  has  relieved  authors 
from  this  shameful  necessity,  a  consummation  toward  which 
the  stand  taken  by  Pope  and  Johnson  led  the  way. 

^  Lines  99-128.  The  student  will  do  well  to  compare  with 
the  Latin  original  (11.  56-80),  and  with  the  famous  passage  in 
Shakespeare's  Henry  VIII.  Both  London  and  The  Vanity  of 
Human  Wislies  are  given  with  useful  annotation  in  Hales's  Longer 
English  Poems. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  25 

Rome  in  tumult  on  the  day  of  the  fall  of  Sejanus ;  i 
the  laurels  on  the  doorposts;  the  v/hite  bull  stalking 
towards  the  Capitol;  the  statues  rolling  down  from 
their  pedestals ;  the  flatterers  of  the  disgraced  minister 
running  to  see  him  dragged  with  a  hook  through  the 
streets,  and  to  have  a  kick  at  his  carcass  before  it  is 
hurled  into  the  Tiber.  It  must  be  owned,  too,  that 
in  the  concluding  passage  the  Christian  moralist  has 
not  made  the  most  of  his  advantages,  and  has  fallen 
decidedly  short  of  the  sublimity  of  his  Pagan  model. 
On  the  other  hand,  Juvenal's  Hannibal  must  yield 
to  Johnson's  Charles;  ^  and  Johnson's  vigorous  and 
pathetic  enumeration  of  the  miseries  of  a  literary  life  ^ 
must  be  allowed  to  be  superior  to  Juvenal's  lamenta- 
tion over  the  fate  of  Demosthenes  and  Cicero. 

For  the  copyright  of  "  The  Vanity  of  Human 
Wishes  "  Johnson  received  only  fifteen  guineas. 

A  few  days  after  the  publication  of  this  poem,  his 
tragedy,  begun  many  years  before,  was  brought  on 
the  stage.  His  pupil,  David  Garrick,  had  in  1741 
made  his  appearance  on  a  humble  stage  in  Goodman's 
Fields,*  had  at  once  risen  to  the  first  place  among 
actors,  and  was  now,  after  several  years  of  almost 
uninterrupted  success,  manager  of  Drury  Lane  The- 

1  The  infamous  minister  of  the  Emperor  Tiberius,  whose  fate 
had  previously  given  Ben  Jonson  the  subject  for  a  tragedy.  See 
Capes's  Early  Roman  Empire  in  the  Epochs  series.  Maeaulay  is 
paraphrasing  Juvenal. 

2  That  is,  the  great  Charles  XII.  of  Sweden. 

3  "  Toil,  envy,  want,  the  patron,  and  the  gaol." 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  1. 160. 

Johnson's  satires  have  furnished  several  familiar  quotations^ 
and  are  strong,  though  by  no  means  great  poems. 
*  Near  the  Tower. 


26  MACAULAY. 

atre.^  The  relation  between  him  and  his  old  precep« 
tor  was  of  a  very  singular  kind.  They  repelled  each 
other  strongly,  and  yet  attracted  each  other  strongly. 
Nature  had  made  them  of  very  different  clay,  and 
circumstances  had  fully  brought  out  the  natural  pecu- 
liarities of  both.  Sudden  prosperity  had  turned  Gar- 
rick's  head.  Continued  adversity  had  soured  John- 
son's temper.  Johnson  saw,  with  more  envy  than 
became  so  great  a  man,  the  villa,  the  plate,  the 
china,  the  Brussels  carpet,  which  the  little  mimic  had 
got  by  repeating,  with  grimaces  and  gesticulations, 
what  wiser  men  had  written;  and  the  exquisitely  sen- 
sitive vanity  of  Garrick  was  galled  by  the  thought 
that,  while  all  the  rest  of  the  world  was  applauding 
him,  he  could  obtain  from  one  morose  cynic,  whose 
opinion  it  was  impossible  to  despise,  scarcely  any 
comj)liraent  not  acidulated  with  scorn.  Yet  the  two 
Lichfield  men  had  so  many  early  recollections  in  com- 
mon, and  sympathized  with  each  other  on  so  many 
points  on  which  they  sympathized  with  nobody  else 
in  the  vast  population  of  the  capital,  that  though  the 
master  was  often  provoked  by  the  monkey-like  im- 
pertinence of  the  pupil,  and  the  pupil  by  the  bearish 
rudeness  of  the  master,  they  remained  friends  till 
they  were  parted  by  death.  Garrick  now  brought 
"Irene"  out,  with  alterations  sufficient  to  displease 
the  author,  yet  not  sufficient  to  make  the  piece  pleas- 
ing to  the  audience.  The  public,  however,  listened, 
with  little  emotion  but  with  much  civility,  to  five 
acts  of  monotonous  declamation.  After  nine  repre- 
sentations^  the  play  was  withdrawn.     It  is,  indeed, 

*  Drury  Lane  Theatre  was  opened  in  1674  with  an  address  by 
Dryden.  It  has  been  several  times  rebuilt  and  is  still  used— 
chiefly  for  pantomimes. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  27 

altogether  unsuited  to  the  stage,  and,  even  when 
perused  in  the  closet,  will  be  found  hardly  worthy  of 
the  author.  He  had  not  the  slightest  notion  of  what 
blank  verse  should  be.  A  change  in  the  last  syllable 
of  every  other  line  would  make  the  versification  of 
"The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes"  closely  resemble 
the  versification  of  "Irene."  ^  The  poet,  however, 
cleared  by  his  benefit  nights, ^  and  by  the  sale  of  the 
copyright  of  his  tragedy,  about  three  hundred  pounds, 
then  a  great  sum  in  his  estimation.^ 

About  a  year  after  the  representation  of  "Irene,'* 
he  began  to  publish  a  series  of  short  essays  on  morals, 
manners,  and  literature.  This  species  of  composition 
had  been  brought  into  fashion  by  the  success  of  "The 
Tatler,"  and  by  the  still  more  brilliant  success  of 
"The  Spectator."*  A  crowd  of  small  writers  had 
vainly  attempted  to  rival  Addison.      "The  Lay  Mon- 

1  The  subject  of  Johnson's  tragedy  is  the  passion  of  the  Sul- 
tan Mahomet  (the  Great)  for  a  beautiful  Greek  slave,  Irene. 
Maeaulay's  criticism  seems  eminently  just.  The  student  need 
not  be  a  master  of  the  technicalities  of  blank  verse  in  order  to 
feel  that  Johnson  could  not  write  it ;  a  feeling  which  will  be 
strengthened  by  a  perusal  of  the  papers  on  Milton's  versification 
contributed  to  The  Rambler. 

2  The  author  seems  to  have  received  the  profits  of  every 
third  night's  performance.  See  Boswell,  who  gives  many  in- 
teresting details  about  the  performance.  Johnson  took  his  disap- 
pointment philosophically. 

^  Macau  lay  naturally  has  little  more  to  say  about  Johnson  as 
a  poet.  The  Doctor's  greatness  did  not  lie  that  way,  but  his  two 
satires,  his  elegy  on  Levet  (see  post),  and  one  or  two  epitaphs 
a^d  impromptus  should  be  read  by  the  serious  student.  Of  the 
Latin  poems  the  lines  to  Cave  are  excellent,  and  the  version  of 
Pope's  Messiah  is  good. 

*  See  the  essay  on  Addison,  also  Gosse,  and,  better  still,  read 
•elections  from  both  papers,  which  originated  in  the  fertile  brain 
of  Steele,  but  were  made  classical  by  Addison. 


28  MA  CAUL  AY. 

astery,"  "The  Censor,'^'  "The  Freethinker,"  "The 
Plain  Dealer,"  "The  Champion,"  ^  and  other  works  of 
the  same  kind,  had  had  their  short  day.  None  of  them 
had  obtained  a  permanent  place  in  our  literature; 
and  they  are  now  to  be  found  only  in  the  libraries  of 
the  curious.  At  length  Johnson  undertook  the  ad- 
venture in  which  so  many  aspirants  had  failed.  In 
the  thirty-sixth  year  after  the  appearance  of  the  last 
number  of  "The  Spectator,"  appeared  the  first  num- 
ber of  "The  Eambler."2  From  March,  1750,  to 
March,  1752,  this  paper  continued  to  come  out  every 
Tuesday  and  Saturday. 

From  the  first,  "The  Rambler  "  was  enthusiastically 
admired  by  a  few  eminent  men.  Richardson,^  when 
only  five  numbers  had  appeared,  pronounced  it  equal, 
if  not  superior,  to  "The  Spectator."  Young  and 
Hartley  expressed  their  approbation  not  less  warmly. 
Bubb  Dodington  *  — •  among  whose  many  faults  indif- 

1  The  Lay  Monastery  ran  from  Nov.  16,  1713,  to  Feb.  15, 
1714,  under  the  direction  of  Sir  Richard  Blackmore  and  Mr. 
Hughes.  The  Censor,  three  volumes,  appeared  in  1717  under 
Lewis  Theobald,  the  Shakespearean  critic.  Tlie  Freethinker  ran 
for  159  numbers,  Mar.  24,  1718,  to  Sept.  28,  1719,  under 
Ambrose  Philips.  The  Plain  Dealer  ran  for  117  numbers,  Mar. 
27, 1724,  to  May  7, 1725,  under  Aaron  Hill.  The  Champion,  two 
volumes,  appeared  in  1741,  and  was  directed  by  no  less  a  person- 
age than  Henry  Fielding. 

2  Johnson  with  his  accustomed  piety  composed  a  special  prayer 
for  success  on  this  occasion.  The  exact  dates  of  the  paper  are 
Tuesday,  March  20,  1750,  to  Saturday,  March  14,  1752,  —  208 
numbers,  all  but  about  five  of  which  were  by  Johnson.  ^ 

^  Samuel  Richardson  (1689-1761),  practically  the  first  English 
novelist,  author  of  Pamelaj  etc.  Johnson  preferred  him  to 
his  younger  rival,  Fielding.  Richardson  himself  wrote  No.  97 
of  The  Rambler. 

^  The  famous  author  of  Night-Thoughts,  Dr.  Edward  Young 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  29 

ference  to  the  claims  of  genius  and  learning  cannot  be 
reckoned  —  solicited  the  acquaintance  of  the  writer. 
In  consequence,  probably,  of  the  good  offices  of  Dod- 
ington,  who  was  then  the  confidential  adviser  of 
Prince  Frederick,  two  of  his  Royal  Highness 's  gen- 
tlemen carried  a  gracious  message  to  the  printing- 
office,  and  ordered  seven  copies  for  Leicester  House. ^ 
But  these  overtures  seem  to  have  been  very  coldly 
received.  Johnson  had  had  enough  of  the  patronage 
of  the  great  to  last  him  all  his  life,  and  was  not  dis- 
posed to  haunt  any  other  door  as  he  had  haunted  the 
door  of  Chesterfield. 

By  the  public  "The  Rambler"  was  at  first  very 
coldly  received.  Though  the  price  of  a  number  was 
only  twopence,  the  sale  did  not  amount  to  five  hun- 
dred. The  profits  were  therefore  very  small.  But 
as  soon  as  the  flying  leaves  were  collected  and  re- 
printed, they  became  popular.  The  author  lived  to 
see  thirteen  thousand  copies  spread  over  England 
alone.  Separate  editions  were  published  for  the 
Scotch  and  Irish  markets.  A  large  party  pronounced 
the  style  perfect,  —  so  absolutely  perfect  that  in  some 
essays  it  would  be  impossible  for  the  writer  himself 
to  alter  a  single  word  for  the  better.  Another  party, 
not  less  numerous,  vehemently  accused  him  of  hav- 
ing corrupted  the  purity  of  the  English  tongue.  The 
best  critics  admitted  that  his  diction  was  too  monot- 

(1681-1765),  David  Hartley  (1705-1757),  the  metaphysician, 
und  George  Bubb  Dodington  (Lord  Melcombe,  1691-1762),  a 
much  talked  of,  and  not  very  highly  esteemed,  courtier  whom 
Browning  has  made  the  subject  of  one  of  his  Parley ings. 

^  The  residence  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  who  quarreled  with 
his  father,  George  II.  Frederick  (1707-1751)  was  the  father  of 
George  III. 


30  MACAULAY. 

onous,  too  obviously  artificial,  and  now  and  then 
turgid  even  to  absurdity.  But  they  did  justice  to  the 
acuteness  of  his  observations  on  morals  and  manners, 
to  the  constant  precision  and  frequent  brilliancy  of 
his  language,  to  the  weighty  and  magnificent  eloquence 
of  many  serious  passages,  and  to  the  solemn  yet  pleas- 
ing humor  of  some  of  the  lighter  papers.  On  the 
question  of  precedence  between  Addison  and  Johnson, 
—  a  question  which,  seventy  years  ago,  was  much 
disputed,  —  posterity  has  pronounced  a  decision  from 
which  there  is  no  appeal.  Sir  Roger,  his  chaplain 
and  his  butler.  Will  Wimble  and  Will  Honeycomb, 
the  Vision  of  Mirza,  the  Journal  of  the  Retired  Citi- 
zen, the  Everlasting  Club,  the  Dunmow  Elitch,  the 
Loves  of  Hilpah  and  Shalum,  the  Visit  to  the  Ex- 
change, and  the  Visit  to  the  Abbey,  are  known  to 
everybody.  1  But  many  men  and  women,  even  of 
highly  cultivated  minds,  are  unacquainted  with 
Squire  Bluster  and  Mrs.  Busy,  Quisquilius  and  Ve- 
nustulus,  the  Allegory  of  Wit  and  Learning,  the 
Chronicle  of  the  Revolutions  of  a  Garret,  and  the  sad 
fate  of  Anningait  and  Ajut. 

The  last  "  Rambler "  was  written  in  a  sad  and 
gloomy  hour.  Mrs.  Johnson  had  been  given  over  by 
the  physicians.  Three  days  later  she  died.  She  left 
her  husband  almost  broken-hearted.  Many  people 
had  been  surprised  to  see  a  man  of  his  genius  and 
learning  stooping  to  every  drudgery,  and  denying 
himself  almost  every  comfort,  for  the  purpose  of  sup- 
plying a  silly,  affected  old  woman  with  superfluities, 
which  she  accepted  with  but  little  gratitude.     But 

^  "  Dunmow  Flitch "  is  Macaulay's  own  and  not  entirely 
accurate  title  for  Nos.  607,  608  of  The  Spectator,  which  are  not 
certainly  by  Addison. 


I 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  31 

all  his  affection  had  been  concentrated  on  her.  He 
had  neither  brother  nor  sister,  neither  son  nor  daugh^ 
ter.  To  him  she  was  beautiful  as  the  Gunnings,^  and 
witty  as  Lady  Mary.^  Her  opinion  of  his  writings 
was  more  important  to  him  than  the  voice  of  the  pit 
of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  or  the  judgment  of  "  The 
Monthly  Review."  The  chief  support  which  had 
sustained  him  through  the  most  arduous  labor  of  his 
life  was  the  hope  that  she  would  enjoy  the  fame  and 
the  profit  which  he  anticipated  from  his  Dictionary. 
She  was  gone ;  and  in  that  vast  labyrinth  of  streets, 
peopled  by  eight  hundred  thousand  human  beings, 
he  was  alone.  Yet  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  set 
himself,  as  he  expressed  it,  doggedly  to  work.  After 
three  more  laborious  years,  the  Dictionary  was  at 
length  complete. 

It  had  been  generally  supposed  that  this  great  work 
would  be  dedicated  to  the  eloquent  and  accomplished 
nobleman  to  whom  the  Prospectus  had  been  ad- 
dressed. He  well  knew  the  value  of  such  a  com- 
pliment; and  therefore,  when  the  day  of  publication 
drew  near,  he  exerted  himself  to  soothe,  by  a  show  of 
zealous  and  at  the  same  time  of  delicate  and  judicious 
kindness,  the  pride  which  he  had  so  cruelly  wounded. 
Since  the  "Ramblers"  had  ceased  to  appear,  the 
town  had  been  entertained  by  a  journal  called  "The 

1  Elizabeth  (1734-1790)  and  Maria  Gunning  (1733-1760) 
were  famous  beauties,  afterwards  the  Duchess  of  Hamilton  and 
Countess  of  Coventry  respectively. 

2  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  (1689-1762),  known  to  Pope 
and  his  set  as  "  Lady  Mary,"  was  a  small  poetess  better  known 
for  her  wit  and  her  talents  as  a  letter  writer.  She  originated 
the  famous  characterization  of  Pope  as  "  the  wicked  wasp  of 
Twickenham."     She  also  introduced  inoculation  into  Europe. 


32  MAC  A  UL  AY. 

World,"  to  which  many  men  of  high  rank  and  fash- 
ion contributed.  1  In  two  successive  numbers  of  "The 
World "  the  Dictionary  was,  to  use  the  modern 
phrase,  puffed  with  wonderful  skill.  The  writings  of 
Johnson  were  warmly  praised.  It  was  proposed  that 
he  should  be  invested  with  the  authority  of  a  dictator, 
nay,  of  a  pope,  over  our  language,  and  that  his  deci- 
sions about  the  meaning  and  the  spelling  of  words 
should  be  received  as  final.  His  two  folios,  it  was 
said,  would  of  course  be  bought  by  everybody  who 
could  afford  to  buy  them.  It  was  soon  known  that 
*;hese  papers  were  written  by  Chesterfield.  But  the 
just  resentment  of  Johnson  was  not  to  be  so  appeased. 
In  a  letter  2  written  with  singular  energy  and  dig- 
nity of  thought  and  language,  he  repelled  the  tardy 
advances  of  his  patron.  The  Dictionary  came  forth 
without  a  dedication.  In  the  preface  the  author  truly 
declared  that  he  owed  nothing  to  the  great,  and  de- 
scribed the  difficulties  with  which  he  had  been  left  to 
struggle  so  forcibly  and  pathetically  that  the  ablest 
and  most  malevolent  of  all  the  enemies  of  his  fame, 
Home  Tooke,^  never  could  read  that  passage  without 
^ears. 

The  public,  on  this  occasion,  did  Johnson  full  jus- 
tice,  and  something   more    than   justice.     The   best 

1  Edited  by  Edward  Moore  (1712-1757),  a  forgotten  poet, 
Chesterfield  and  Horace  Walpole  wrote  for  it,  and  it  ran  from 
Jan.  4,  1753,  to  Dec.  30,  1756  (209  numbers). 

2  See  Boswell  for  this  justly  famous  letter. 
8  John  Home  (1736-1812),  who  subsequently  added  the  name 

Tooke,  is  famous  as  a  politician  tried  for  high  treason  but 
acquitted,  as  a  philologist  whose  Diversions  of  Purley  is  still 
read,  and  as  a  conversationalist  who  rivaled  Johnson  himself. 
The  passage  over  which  he  wept  is  the  concluding  paragraph  of 
the  Preface. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  33 

lexicographer  may  well  be  content  if  his  productions 
are  received  by  the  world  with  cold  esteem.  But 
Johnson's  Dictionary  was  hailed  with  an  enthusiasm 
such  as  no  similar  work  has  ever  excited.  It  was, 
indeed,  the  first  dictionary  which  could  be  read  with 
pleasure.  The  definitions  show  so  much  acuteness  of 
thought  and  command  of  language,  and  the  passages 
quoted  from  poets,  divines,  and  philosophers  are  so 
skilfully  selected,  that  a  leisure  hour  may  always  be 
very  agreeably  spent  in  turning  over  the  pages. ^  The 
faults  of  the  book  resolve  themselves,  for  the  most 
part,  into  one  great  fault.  Johnson  was  a  wretched 
etymologist.  He  knew  little  or  nothing  of  any  Teu- 
tonic language  except  English,  which,  indeed,  as  he 
wrote  it,  w^as  scarcely  a  Teutonic  language ;  and  thus 
he  was  absolutely  at  the  mercy  of  Junius  and  Skin- 
ner.2 

The  Dictionary,  though  it  raised  Johnson's  fame, 
added  nothing  to  his  pecuniary  means.  The  fifteen 
hundred  guineas  which  the  booksellers  had  agreed  to 
pay  him  had  been  advanced  and  spent  before  the  last 
sheets  issued  from  the  press.  It  is  painful  to  relate 
that,  twice  in  the  course  of  the  year  which  followed 

^  Some  of  the  definitions  are  famous  for  their  humor ;  in 
others  Johnson  showed  his  political  bias,  e.  g.,  Lexicographer.^ 
a  harmless  drudge,  and  Excise,  a  hateful  tax. 

2  Francis  Junius  (1589-1677,  of  Huguenot  extraction)  and 
Stephen  Skinner  (1623-1667)  were  scholars  who  studied  the 
Teutonic  languages  (i.  e.,  Gothic,  German,  Scandinavian,  Eng- 
lish, etc.)  at  a  time  when  little  was  known  of  them.  Junius  is 
especially  entitled  to  praise  for  his  work  in  Anglo-Saxon. 
Macaulay*s  criticism  is  just,  but  Johnson,  in  consideration  of 
the  general  ignorance  with  regard  to  etymology,  should  not  be 
unduly  censured.  See  Boswell  for  an  amusing  account  of  the 
Doctor's  methods  of  work. 


H  MACAULAY. 

the  publication  of  this  great  work,  he  was  arrested 
and  carried  to  sponging-houses,  and  that  he  was  twice 
indebted  for  his  liberty  to  his  excellent  friend  Kich- 
ardson.  It  was  still  necessary  for  the  man  who  had 
been  formally  saluted  by  the  highest  authority  as  dic- 
tator of  the  English  language  to  supply  his  wants  by 
constant  toil.  He  abridged  his  Dictionary.  He  pro- 
posed to  bring  out  an  edition  of  Shakespeare  by  sub- 
scription, and  many  subscribers  sent  in  their  names, 
and  laid  down  their  money;  but  he  soon  found  the 
task  so  little  to  his  taste  that  he  turned  to  more  at- 
tractive employments.  He  contributed  many  papers 
to  a  new  monthly  journal  which  was  called  "  The 
Literary  Magazine."  ^  Few  of  these  papers  have 
much  interest,  but  among  them  was  the  very  best 
thing  that  he  ever  wrote,  a  masterpiece  both  of  rea- 
soning and  of  satirical  pleasantry,  the  review  of 
Jenyns's^  "Inquiry  into  the  Nature  and  Origin  of 
Evil." 

In  the  spring  of  1758  Johnson  put  forth  the  first 
of  a  series  of  essays  entitled  "The  Idler."  During 
two  years  these  essays  continued  to  appear  weekly. 
They  were  eagerly  read,  widely  circulated,  and,  in- 
deed, impudently  pirated  while  they  were  still  in  the 
original  form,  and  had  a  large  sale  when  collected 
into  volumes.  "The  Idler"  may  be  described  as  a 
second  part  of  "The  Eambler,"  somewhat  liveli^  and 
somewhat  weaker  than  the  first  part.^ 

^  Founded  in  1756,  and  lasted  about  three  years,  chiefly  on 
Johnson's  reputation. 

2  Soanie  Jenyns  (1704-1787),  a  small  poet,  member  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  author  of  the  above-named  book,  the  style  of  which, 
was  much  admired. 

•  The  first  number  appeared  Saturday,  April  15,  1758;  tho 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  35 

While  Johnson  was  busied  with  his  "Idlers,"  his 
mother,  who  had  accomplished  her  ninetieth  year, 
died  at  Lichfield.  It  was  long  since  he  had  seen  her; 
but  he  had  not  failed  to  contribute  largely,  out  of  his 
small  means,  to  her  comfort.  In  order  to  defray  the 
charges  of  her.  funeral,  and  to  pay  some  debts  which 
she  had  left,  he  wrote  a  little  book  in  a  single  week, 
and  sent  off  the  sheets  to  the  press  without  reading 
them  over.  A  hundred  pounds  were  paid  him  for 
the  copyright;  and  the  purchasers  had  great  cause 
to  be  pleased  with  their  bargain,  for  the  book  was 
"Easselas."! 

The  success  of  "Rasselas"  was  great,  though  such 
ladies  as  Miss  Lydia  Languish  ^  must  have  been 
grievously  disappointed  when  they  found  that  the  new 
volume  from  the  circulating  library  was  little  more 
than  a  dissertation  on  the  author's  favorite  theme, 
the  vanity  of  human  wishes ;  that  the  Prince  of  Abys- 
sinia was  without  a  mistress,  and  the  princess  without 
a  lover;  and  that  the  story  set  the  hero  and  the  hero- 
ine down  exactly  where  it  had  taken  them  up.  The 
style  was  the  subject  of  much  eager  controversy.  "The 
Monthly  Review"  and  "The  Critical  Review  "^  took 

103d  and  last  appeared  Saturday,  April  5,  1760.  Johnson 
wrote  all  except  perhaps  twelve.  The  increased  liveliness  may- 
even  be  seen  in  the  fictitious  names,  which  are  no  longer  Latin 
as  in  The  Rambler,  but  homely  English,  —  such  as  Dick  Linger, 
Betty  Broom,  and  Deborah  Ginger.  Between  The  Rambler  and 
The  Idler  Johnson  wrote  twenty-nine  papers  for  The  Adventurer 
of  his  friend.  Dr.  Hawkesworth,  —  so  that,  all  told,  he  wrote 
nearly  two  hundred  and  twenty-five  essays. 

^'  Rasselas,  or  the  Prince  of  Abyssinia  (1759)  is  the  best  known 
of  Johnson's  prose  works  after  the  Lives  of  the  Poets. 

2  A  well-known  character  in  Sheridan's  Rivals. 

®  Set  up  by  the  Tories  in  1756,  under  the  editorship  of  Smol- 
lett, as  a  rival  to  the  Monthly  (1749),  which  was  Whi^. 


86  MAC  AULA  Y. 

different  sides.  Many  readers  pronounced  the  writer 
a  pompous  pedant,  who  would  never  use  a  word  of 
two  syllables  where  it  was  possible  to  use  a  word  of 
six,  and  who  could  not  make  a  waiting-woman  relate 
her  adventures  without  balancing  every  noun  with 
another  noun  and  every  epithet  with  another  epithet. 
Another  party,  not  less  zealous,  cited  with  delight 
numerous  passages  in  which  weighty  meaning  was 
expressed  \yith  accuracy  and  illustrated  with  splen- 
dor. And  both  the  censure  and  the  praise  were 
merited. 

About  the  plan  of  "Rasselas"  little  was  said  by 
the  critics,  and  yet  the  faults  of  the  plan  might  seem 
to  invite  severe  criticism.  Johnson  has  frequent^ 
blamed  Shakespeare  for  neglecting  the  proprieties  of 
time  and  place,  and  for  ascribing  to  one  age  or  nation 
the  manners  and  opinions  of  another.  Yet  Shake- 
speare has  not  sinned  in  this  way  more  grievously 
than  Johnson.  Easselas  and  Imlac,  Nekayah  and 
Pekuah,  are  evidently  meant  to  be  Abyssinian s  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  for  the  Europe  which  Imlac 
describes  is  the  Europe  of  the  eighteenth  century; 
and  the  inmates  of  the  Happy  Valley  talk  familiarly 
of  that  law  of  gravitation  which  Newton  discovered, 
and  which  was  not  fully  received,  even  at  Cambridge,^ 
till  the  eighteenth  century.  What  a  real  company  of 
Abyssinians  would  have  been  may  be  learned  from 
Bruce's^  "Travels."     But  Johnson,  not  content  with 

^  Newton  was  a  Cambridge  man,  and  that  university  has  been 
famous  for  mathematics,  hence  the  use  of  "  even." 

2  James  Bruce  (1730-94),  the  celebrated  African  traveler, 
whose  Travels  appeared  in  1790  in  five  quarto  volumes.  The 
student  will  recall  Johnson's  early  interest  in  the  Abyssinians  and 
his  translation  of  Lobo. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  37 

turning  filthy  savages,  ignorant  of  their  letters  and 
gorged  with  raw  steaks  cut  from  living  cows,  into 
philosophers  as  eloquent  and  enlightened  as  himself 
or  his  friend  Burke,  and  into  ladies  as  highly  ac- 
comjjlished  as  Mrs.  Lennox^  or  Mrs.  Sheridan,^ 
transferred  the  whole  domestic  system  of  England  to 
Egypt.  Into  a  land  of  harems,  a  land  of  polygamy, 
a  land  where  women  are  married  without  ever  being 
seen,  he  introduced  the  flirtations  and  jealousies  of 
our  ball-rooms.  In  a  land  where  there  is  boundless 
liberty  of  divorce,  wedlock  is  described  as  the  indis- 
soluble compact.  "A  youth  and  maiden  meeting  by 
chance,  or  brought  together  by  artifice,  exchange 
glances,  reciprocate  civilities,  go  home  and  dream  of 
each  other.  Such,"  says  Kasselas,  "is  the  common 
process  of  marriage."  Such  it  may  have  been,  and 
may  still  be,  in  London,  but  assuredly  not  at  Cairo. 
A  writer  who  was  guilty  of  such  improprieties  had 
little  right  to  blame  the  poet  who  made  Hector  quote 
Aristotle,  and  represented  Julio  Romano  as  flourish- 
ing in  the  days  of  the  oracle  of  Delphi.^ 

By  such  exertions  as  have  been  described,  Johnson 

1  Mrs.  Charlotte  Lennox  (1720-1804)  was  the  author  of  The 
Female  Quixote,  a  novel  of  some  vogue,  and  a  woman  for  whom 
Johnson  seems  to  have  had  considerable  respect. 

2  Mrs.  Frances  Sheridan  (1724-1766),  the  mother  of  the  great 
dramatist  and  author  of  two  novels. 

3  See  Troilus  and  Cressida,  II.  ii.,  and  A  Winter^s  Tale,  V.  ii. 
Giulio  Romano  (1492-1546)  was  a  distinguished  Italian  painter, 
a  pupil  of  Raphael's.  Maeaulay's  criticism  of  Rasselas  is  just 
in  the  main,  but  in  spite  of  all  its  faults  the  story,  like  many 
another  classic,  retains  a  hold  upori- readers  through  the  general 
appeal  of  its  central  theme  and  the  soundness  of  its  ethical 
content.  Still  Johnson  was  a  moralist  rather  than  a  story- 
teller, though  he  actually  tried  his  hand  on  a  fairy  tale  (The 
Fountains^. 


k 


38  MACAULAY. 

supported  himself  till  the  year  1762.  In  that  year 
a  great  change  in  his  circumstances  took  place.  He 
had  from  a  child  been  an  enemy  of  the  reigning  dy- 
nasty. His  Jacobite  prejudices  had  been  exhibited 
with  little  disguise  both  in  his  works  and  in  his  con- 
versation. Even  in  his  massy  and  elaborate  Diction- 
ary, he  had,  with  a  strange  \yant  of  taste  and  judg- 
ment, inserted  bitter  and  contumelious  reflections  on 
the  Whig  party.  The  excise,  which  was  a  favorite 
resource  of  Whig  financiers,  he  had  designated  as  a 
hateful  tax.  He  had  railed  against  the  commissioners 
of  excise  in  language  so  coarse  that  they  had  seri- 
ously thought  of  prosecuting  him.  He  had  with  diffi- 
culty been  prevented  from  holding  up  the  lord  privy 
seal  ^  by  name  as  an  example  of  the  meaning  of  the 
word  "renegade."  A  pension  he  had  defined  as  pay 
given  to  a  state  hireling  to  betray  his  country;  a 
pensioner,  as  a  slave  of  state  hired  by  a  stipend  to 
obey  a  master.  It  seemed  unlikely  that  the  author 
of  these  definitions  would  himself  be  pensioned.  But 
that  was  a  time  of  wonders.  George  III.  had  as- 
cended the  throne,^  and  had,  in  the  course  of  a  few 
months,  disgusted  many  of  the  old  friends,  and  con- 
ciliated many  of  the  old  enemies,  of  his  house.  The 
city  was  becoming  mutinous.  Oxford  was  becoming 
loyal. ^     Cavendishes  and  Bentincks  were  murmuring. 

1  The  keeper  of  the  seal  affixed  to  less  important  documents 
and  to  grants  that  are  afterwards  to  pass  under  the  great  seal 
(kept  by  the  Lord  Chancellor).  The  lord  privy  seal  is  a  mem- 
ber of  the  cabinet  with  little  work  to  do.  The  keeper  referred 
to  was  Lord  Gower,  whom  Johnson  regarded  as  a  renegade  be- 
cause he  gave  up  the  Jacobite  party. 

2  In  1760. 

,  *  That  is,  to  the  Hanoverians.  It  has  always  been  loyal,  and 
•lung  to  the  Stuarts  as  long  as  possible. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  39 

Somersets  and  Wyndhams^  were  hastening  to  kiss 
hands.  The  head  of  the  treasury  was  now  Lord 
Bute, 2  who  was  a  Tory,  and  could  have  no  objection 
to  Johnson's  Toryism.  Bute  wished  to  be  thought 
a  patron  of  men  of  letters,  and  Johnson  was  one  of 
the  most  eminent  and  one  of  the  most  needy  men 
of  letters  in  Europe.  A  pension  of  three  hundred  a 
year  was  graciously  offered,  and  with  very  little  hesi- 
tation accepted. 

This  event  produced  a  change  in  Johnson's  whole 
way  of  life.  For  the  first  time  since  his  boyhood,  he 
no  longer  felt  the  daily  goad  urging  him  to  the  daily 
toil.  He  was  at  liberty,  after  thirty  years  of  anxiety 
and  drudgery,  to  indulge  his  constitutional  indolence, 
to  lie  in  bed  till  two  in  the  afternoon,  and  to  sit  up 
talking  till  four  in  the  morning,  without  fearing 
either  the  printer's  devil  or  the  sheriff's  officer. 

One  laborious  task,  indeed,  he  had  bound  himseK 
to  perform.  He  had  received  large  subscriptions  for 
his  promised  edition  of  Shakespeare;  he  had  lived 
on  those  subscriptions  during  some  years;  and  he 
could  not,  without  disgrace,  omit  to  perform  his  part 
of  the  contract.  His  friends  repeatedly  exhorted  him 
to  make  an  effort,  and  he  repeatedly  resolved  to  do 
so.  But,  notwithstanding  their  exhortations  and  his 
resolutions,  month  followed  month,  year  followed 
year,  and  nothing  was  done.  He  prayed  fervently 
against  his  idleness;  he  determined,  as  often  as  he 
received  the  sacrament,  that  he  would  no  longer  doze 
away  and  trifle  away  his  time;  but  the  spell  under 

^  Representative  Whig  and  Tory  families  respectively. 

2  John  Stuart,  Earl  of  Bute  (1713-1792),  became  premier  in 
1762.  For  a  good  sketch  of  his  incompetent  administration  see 
Macaulay's  essay  on  Chatham. 


i 


40  MACAULAY. 

which  he  lay  resisted  prayer  and  sacramento  His 
private  notes  at  this  time  are  made  up  of  self- 
reproaches,  "My  indolence,"  he  wrote  on  Easteif 
Eve  in  1764,  "has  sunk  into  grosser  sluggishness.  A  ' 
kind  of  strange  oblivion  has  overspread  me,  so  that 
I  know  not  what  has  become  of  the  last  year."  Eas« 
ter,  1765,  came,  and  found  him  still  in  the  same 
state.  "My  time,"  he  wrote,  "has  been  unprofitably 
spent,  and  seems  as  a  dream  that  has  left  nothing 
behind.  My  memory  grows  confused,  and  I  know 
not  how  the  days  pass  over  me."^  Happily  for  his 
honor,  the  charm  which  held  him  captive  was  at 
length  broken  by  no  gentle  or  friendly  hand.  He 
had  been  weak  enough  to  pay  serious  attention  to  a 
story  about  a  ghost  which  haunted  a  house  in  Cock 
Lane,  2  and  had  actually  gone  himself,  with  some  of 
his  friends,  at  one  in  the  morning,  to  St.  John's 
Church,  Clerkenwell,  in  the  hope  of  receiving  a  com- 
munication from  the  perturbed  spirit.  But  the 
spirit,  though  adjured  with  all  solemnity,  remained 
obstinately  silent;  and  it  soon  appeared  that  a 
naughty  girl  of  eleven  had  been  amusing  herself  by 
making  fools  of  so  many  philosophers.  Churchill,^ 
who,  confident  in  his  powers,  drunk  with  popularity, 
and  burning  with  party  spirit,  was  looking  for  some 
man  of  established  fame  and  Tory  politics  to  insult, 
celebrated  the  Cock  Lane  ghost  in  three  cantos,  nick- 

^  Johnson's  prayers  and  meditations  were  collected  and  pub- 
lished by  George  Strahan  in  1785. 

2  See  a  chapter  in  Andrew  Lang's  recent  book,  Cock  Lane  and 
Common  SensCo  Doctor  Johnson  really  assisted  in  detecting  the 
imposture,  so  that  Macaulay  is  unjust  to  him. 

8  Charles  Churchill  (1731-1764),  a  satirist  of  ability,  whose 
vicious  life  was  much  talked  of  and  is  still  remembered  against 
him. 


I 

I 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  41 

named  Johnson  Pomposo,  asked  where  the  book  was 
which  had  been  so  long  promised  and  so  liberally 
paid  for,  and  directly  accused  the  great  moralist  of 
cheating.  1  This  terrible  word  proved  effectual;  and 
in  October,  1765,  appeared,  after  a  delay  of  nine 
years,  the  new  edition  of  Shakespeare. 

This  publication  saved  Johnson's  character  for 
honesty,  but  added  nothing  to  the  fame  of  his  abilities 
and  learning.  The  preface,  though  it  contains  some 
good  passages,  is  not  in  his  best  manner. ^  The  most 
valuable  notes  are  those  in  which  he  had  an  opportu- 
nity of  showing  how  attentively  he  had,  during  many 
years,  observed  human  life  and  human  nature.  The 
best  specimen  is  the  note  on  the  character  of  Polonius.^ 
Nothing  so  good  is  to  be  found  even  in  Wilhelm  Meis- 
ter's*  admirable  examination  of  Hamlet.  But  here 
praise  must  end.  It  would  be  difficult  to  name  a 
more  slovenly,  a  more  worthless,  edition  of  any  great 
classic.  The  reader  may  turn  over  play  after  play 
without  finding  one  happy  conjectural  emendation,  or 
one  ingenious  and  satisfactory  explanation  of  a  pas- 
sage which  had  baffled  preceding  commentators. 
Johnson  had,  in  his  Prospectus,  told  the  world  that 

1  Churchill's  The  Ghost  was  in  four  books.  "Pomposo  "  is  de- 
scribed in  Book  II.,  11.  653-688.'  In  Book  HI.,  11.  799  seq.,  the 
Shakespeare  matter  is  brought  in  :  — 

"  How,  for  integrity  renown.'d, 
Which  booksellers  have  often  found, 
•  He  for  subscribers  baits  his  hook, 
And  takes  their  cash  —  but  where  's  the  book  ?  " 

Doctor  Johnson  said  of  this  satire  that  he  thought  Churchill  a 
shallow  fellow  in  the  beginning,  and  had  seen  no  reason  for 
altering  his  opinion. 

^  This  judgment  will  not  pass  unquestioned. 

*  See  Hamlet. 

*  By  Goethe  —  Wilhelm  Meister^s  LehrjahrCf  IV.  xiiL 


42  MA  CAUL  AY. 

tie  was  peculiarly  fitted  for  the  task  which  he  had 
undertaken,  because  he  had,  as  a  lexicographer,  been 
under  the  necessity  of  taking  a  wider  view  of  the 
English  language  than  any  of  his  predecessors.  That 
his  knowledge  of  our  literature  was  extensive,  is  in- 
disputable. But,  unfortunately,  he  had  altogether 
neglected  that  very  part  of  our  literature  with  which 
it  is  especially  desirable  that  an  editor  of  Shakespeare 
should  be  conversant.  It  is  dangerous  to  assert  a 
negative.  Yet  little  will  be  risked  by  the  assertion 
that  in  the  two  folio  volumes  of  the  En  owlish  Die- 
tionary  there  is  not  a  single  passage  quoted  from 
any  dramatist  of  the  Elizabethan  age  except  Shake- 
speare and  Ben.i  Even  from  Ben  the  quotations  are 
few.  Johnson  might  easily,  in  a  few  months,  have 
made  himself  well  acquainted  with  every  old  play  that 
was  extant.  But  it  never  seems  to  have  occurred  to 
him  that  this  was  a  necessary  preparation  for  the 
work  which  he  had  undertaken.  He  would  doubtless 
have  admitted  that  it  would  be  the  height  of  absurd- 
ity in  a  man  who  was  not  familiar  with  the  works 
of  ^schylus  and  Euripides  to  publish  an  edition  of 
Sophocles.  Yet  he  ventured  to  publish  an  edition 
of  Shakespeare  without  having  ever  in  his  life,  as  far 
as  can  be  discovered,  read  a  single  scene  of  Massin- 
ger.  Ford,  Dekker,  Webster,  Marlowe,  Beaumont,  or 
Fletcher.  His  detractors  were  noisy  and  scurrilous. 
Those  who  most  loved  and  honored  him  had  little  to 
say  in  praise  of  the  manner  in  which  he  had  dis- 
charged the  duty  of  a  commentator.     He  had,  how- 

^  Ben  Jonson  (1573-1637).  Macaulay  practically  gives  a 
list  of  the  chief  Elizabethan  dramatists  (omitting  Middleton, 
Peele,  and  one  or  two  others),  for  whom  the  student  may  coiisult 
Saintsbury's  History  of  Elizabethan  Literature. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  43 

ever,  acquitted  himself  of  a  debt  which  had  long  lain 
heavy  on  his  conscience,  and  he  sank  back  into  the 
repose  from  which  the  sting  of  satire  had  roused  him. 
He  long  continued  to  live  upon  the  fame  which  he 
had  already  won.  He  was  honored  by  the  Univer- 
sity of  Oxford  with  a  doctor's  degree,^  by  the  Royal 
Academy  2  with  a  professorship,  and  by  the  King 
with  an  interview,  in  which  his  Majesty  most  gra- 
ciously expressed  a  hope  that  so  excellent  a  writer 
would  not  cease  to  write. ^  In  the  interval,  however, 
between  1765  and  1775,  Johnson  published  only  two 
or  three  political  tracts,*  the  longest  of  which  he  could 
have  produced  in  forty-eight  hours,  if  he  had  worked 
as  he  worked  on  the  Life  of  Savage  and  on  "Ras- 
selas." 

But,  though  his  pen  was  now  idle,  his  tongue  was 
active.  The  influence  exercised  by  his  conversation, 
directly  upon  those  with  whom  he  lived,  and  indirectly 
on  the  whole  literary  world,  was  altogether  without 
a  parallel.  His  colloquial  talents  were,  indeed,  of 
the  highest  order.  He  had  strong  sense,  quick  dis- 
cernment, wit,  humor,  immense  knowledge  of  litera- 
ture and  of  life,  and  an  infinite  store  of  curious  anec- 
dotes. As  respected  style,  he  spoke  far  better  than 
he  wrote.     Every  sentence  which  dropped  from  his 

^  In  1755,  just  before  his  Dictionary  was  published,  Oxford 
gave  him  an  M.  A.  Dublin  gave  him  the  degree  of  LL.  D.  in 
1765,  Oxford  ten  years  later  that  of  D.  C.  L. 

^  The  Royal  Academy  of  Arts  was  founded  in  1768,  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  being  its  first  president.  Johnson  was  made  Professor 
in  Ancient  Literature,  —  an  honor  without  salary. 

3  In  February,  1767,  "  in  the  library  at  the  queen's  house." 
See  Boswell. 

*  For  example,  The  False  Alarm ^-  The  Patriot;  Taxation  no 
Tyranny,  etc. 


44  MAC  A  UL  AY. 

lips  was  as  correct  in  structure  as  the  most  nicely 
balanced  period  of  "The  Rambler."  But  in  his  talk 
there  were  no  pompous  triads,  and  little  more  than 
a  fair  proportion  of  words  in  "osity"  and  "ation." 
All  was  simplicity,  ease,  and  vigor.  He  uttered  his 
short,  weighty,  and  pointed  sentences,  with  a  power 
of  voice  and  a  justness  and  energy  of  emphasis  of 
which  the  effect  was  rather  increased  than  diminished 
by  the  rollings  of  his  huge  form,  and  by  the  asthmatic 
gaspings  and  puffings  in  which  the  peals  of  his  elo- 
quence generally  ended.  Nor  did  the  laziness  which 
made  him  unwilling  to  sit  down  to  his  desk  prevent 
him  from  giving  instruction  or  entertainment  orally. 
To  discuss  questions  of  taste,  of  learning,  of  casuistry, 
in  language  so  exact  and  so  forcible  that  it  might 
have  been  printed  without  the  alteration  of  a  word, 
was  to  him  no  exertion,  but  a  pleasure.  He  loved, 
as  he  said,  to  fold  his  legs  and  have  his  talk  out. 
He  was  ready  to  bestow  the  overflowings  of  his  full 
mind  on  anybody,  who  would  start  a  subject,  —  on 
a  fellow-passenger  in  a  stage-coach,  or  on  the  person 
who  sat  at  the  same  table  with  him  in  an  eating- 
house.  But  his  conversation  was  nowhere  so  brilliant 
and  striking  as  when  he  was  surrounded  by  a  few 
friends  ^  whose  abilities  and  knowledge  enabled  them, 
as  he  once  expressed  it,  to  send  him  back  every  ball 
that  he  threw.  Some  of  these,  in  1764,  formed  them- 
selves into  a  club, 2  which  gradually  became  a  formid- 

^  It  was  so  with  Addison.     See  the  essay  on  him. 

2  It  met  at  the  Turk's  Head,  Soho,  and  was  called  the  Literary 
Club  after  Garrick's  death.  Macaulay  gives  the  names  of  all 
the  original  members  save  those  of  Burke's  father-in-law,  Dr. 
Nugent,  Mr.  Anthony  Charaier,  and  Sir  John  Hawkins  (who 
wrote  a  life   of  Johnson).     The  club  has  been   continued  and 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  45 

able  power  in  the  commonwealth  of  letters.  The 
verdicts  pronounced  by  this  conclave  on  new  books 
were  speedily  known  over  all  London,  and  were  suffi- 
cient to  sell  off  a  whole  edition  in  a  day,  or  to  con- 
demn the  sheets  to  the  service  of  the  trunk-maker 
and  the  pastry  cook.  Nor  shall  we  think  this  strange 
when  we  consider  what  great  and  various  talents  and 
acquirements  met  in  the  little  fraternity.  Goldsmith 
was  the  representative  of  poetry  and  light  literature ; 
Reynolds,  of  the  arts;  Burke,  of  political  eloquence 
and  political  philosophy.  There,  too,  were  Gibbon, 
the  greatest  historian, .  and  Jones,  the  greatest  lin- 
guist, of  the  age.  Garrick  brought  to  the  meetings 
his  inexhaustible  pleasantry,  his  incomparable  mim- 
icry, and  his  consummate  knowledge  of  stage  effect. 
Among  the  most  constant  attendants  were  two  high- 
born and  high-bred  gentlemen,  closely  bound  together 
by  friendship,  but  of  widely  different  characters  and 
habits,  —  Bennet  Langton,  distinguished  by  his  skill 
in  Greek  literature,  by  the  orthodoxy  of  his  opinions, 
and  by  the  sanctity  of  his  life;  and  Topham  Beau- 
clerk,^  renowned  for  his  amours,  his  knowledge  of 
the  gay  world,  his  fastidious  taste,  and  his  sarcastic 

Macaulay  in  Trevelyan's  Life  and  Letters  gives  a  pleasant  account 
of  attending  a  meeting  of  it.  It  maybe  noted  that  in  1749  John- 
son had  started  a  club  which  contained,  however,  no  such  celeb- 
rities.    The  idea  of  the  great  Club  came  from  Sir  Joshua. 

1  Of  this  list  the  names  of  Goldsmith,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
(1723-1792),  Burke,  Gibbon  (1737-1794),  and  Garrick  are  too 
familiar,  or  ought  to  be,  to  require  a  note.  Macaulay  says  enough 
of  Langton  (1737-1801,  who  succeeded  Johnson  at  the  Royal 
Academy)  and  Beauclerk  (1739-1780)  ;  and  the  student  may 
look  up  the  career  of  Sir  William  Jones  (1746-1794),  whose  work 
as  a  jurist  and  oriental  linguist  is  of  very  high  importance.  His 
poem  What  constitutes  a  State  should  also  be  read. 


46  MA  CAUL  AY. 

wit.  To  predominate  over  such  a  society  was  not 
easy.  Yet  even  over  such  a  society  Johnson  predomi- 
nated. Burke  might,  indeed,  have  disputed  the  su- 
premacy to  which  others  were  under  the  necessity  oi 
submitting.  But  Burke,  though  not  generally  a  very 
patient  listener,  was  content  to  take  the  second  part 
when  Johnson  was  present;  and  the  club  itself,  con- 
sisting of  so  many  eminent  men,  is  to  this  day  popu- 
larly designated  as  Johnson's  Club. 

Among  the  members  of  this  celebrated  body  was 
one  to  whom  it  has  owed  the  greater  part  of  its  celeb- 
rity, yet  who  was  regarded  with  little  respect  by  his 
brethren,  and  had  not  without  difficulty  obtained  a 
seat  among  them.  This  was  James  Boswell,^  a  young 
Scotch  lawyer,  heir  to  an  honorable  name  and  a  fair 
estate.  That  he  was  a  coxcomb  and  a  bore,  weak, 
vain,  pushing,  curious,  garrulous,  was  obvious  to  all 
who  were  acquainted  with  him.  That  he  could  not 
reason,  that  he  had  no  wit,  no  humor,  no  eloquence, 
is  apparent  from  his  writings.  And  yet  his  writings 
are  read  beyond  the  Mississippi  and  under  the  South- 
ern Cross,  and  are  likely  to  be  read  as  long  as  the 
English  exists,  either  as  a  living  or  as  a  dead  lan- 
guage. Nature  had  made  him  a  slave  and  an  idolater. 
His  mind  resembled  those  creepers  which  the  bot- 
anists call  parasites,  and  which  can  subsist  only  by 
clinging  round  the  stems,  and  imbibing  the  juices, 
of  stronger  plants.  He  must  have  fastened  himself 
on  somebody.  He  might  have  fastened  himself  on 
Wilkes,^  and  have  become  the  fiercest  patriot  in  the 

1  1740-1795. 

2  John  Wilkes  (1727-1797),  the  notorious  demagogue,  editor 
of  The  North  Briton.  The  society  mentioned  by  Macaulay  was 
founded  to  help  Wilkes  in  his  struggle  with  Parliament.  See 
the  essay  on  Chatham. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  47 

Bill  of  Rights  Society.  He  miglit  have  fastened 
himself  on  Whitefield,^  and  have  become  the  loudest 
field-preacher  among  the  Calvinistic  Methodists.  In 
a  happy  hour  he  fastened  himself  on  Johnson.  The 
pair  might  seem  ill-matched.  For  Johnson  had  early 
been  prejudiced  against  Boswell's  country. ^  To  a 
man  of  Johnson's  strong  understanding  and  irritable 
temper,  the  silly  egotism  and  adulation  of  Boswell 
must  have  been  as  teasing  as  the  constant  buzz  of  a 
fly.  Johnson  hated  to  be  questioned;  and  Boswell 
was  eternally  catechising  him  on  all  kinds  of  subjects, 
and  sometimes  propounded  such  questions  as,  "  What 
would  you  do,  sir,  if  you  were  locked  up  in  a  tower 
with  a  baby?"  Johnson  was  a  water-drinker  and 
Boswell  was  a  wine-bibber,  and,  indeed,  little  better 
than  an  habitual  sot.  It  was  impossible  that  there 
should  be  perfect  harmony  between  two  such  compan- 
ions. Indeed,  the  great  man  was  sometimes  provoked 
into  fits  of  passion,  in  which  he  said  things  which  the 
small  man,  during  a  few  hours,  seriously  resented. 
Every  quarrel,  however,  was  soon  made  up.  During 
twenty  years,  the  disciple  continued  to  worship  the 
master;^  the  master  continued  to  scold  the  disciple, 
to  sneer  at  him,  and  to  love  him.  The  two  friends 
ordinarily  resided  at  a  great  distance  from  each  other. 
Boswell  practised  in  the  Parliament  House  of  Edin- 
burgh, and  could  pay  only  occasional  visits  to  Lon- 
don. During  those  visits,  his  chief  business  was  tc 
watch  Johnson,  to  discover  all  Johnson's  habits,  to 
turn  the  conversation  to  subjects  about  which  John- 

1  George  Whitefield  (1714-1770),  the  famous  revivalist. 

2  Scotland.      Cf.  his  well-known  definition  of  oats  as  a  grain 
used  as  food  for  horses  in  England  but  for  people  in  Scotland. 

*  Boswell  first  met  -Johnson  in  1763. 


I 


48  MA  CAUL  AY. 

son  was  likely  to  say  something  remarkable,  and  tc 
fill  quarto  note-books  with  minutes  of  what  Johnson 
had  said.  In  this  way  were  gathered  the  materials 
out  of  which  was  afterwards  constructed  the  most 
interesting  biographical  work  in  the  world. 

Soon  after  the  club  began  to  exist,  Johnson  formed 
a  connection  less  important,  indeed,  to  his  fame,  but 
much  more  important  to  his  happiness,  than  his  con- 
nection with  Boswell.  Henry  Thrale  —  one  of  the 
most  opulent  brewers  in  the  kingdom,  a  man  of  sound 
and  cultivated  understanding,  rigid  principles,  and 
liberal  spirit  —  was  married  to  one  of  those  clever, 
kind-hearted,  engaging,  vain,  pert  young  women  who 
are  perpetually  doing  or  saying  what  is  not  exactly 
right,  but  who,  do  or  say  what  they  may,  are  always 
agreeable.^  In  1765  the  Thrales  became  acquainted 
with  Johnson,  and  the  acquaintance  ripened  fast  into 
friendship.  They  were  astonished  and  delighted  by 
the  brilliancy  of  his  conversation.  They  were  flat- 
tered by  finding  that  a  man  so  widely  celebrated  pre- 
ferred their  house  to  any  other  in  London.  Even  the 
peculiarities  which  seemed  to  unfit  him  for  civilized 
society  —  his  gesticulations,  his  rollings,  his  puffings, 
his  mutterings,  the  strange  way  in  which  he  put  on 
his  clothes,  the  ravenous  eagerness  with  which  he  de- 
voured his  dinner,  his  fits  of  melancholy,  his  fits  of 
anger,  his  frequent  rudeness,  his  occasional  ferocity 
—  increased   the    interest  which   his   new   associates 

J  Mrs.  Thrale  was  Hester  Lynch  Salisbury  (1741-1821).  She 
married  Thrale  in  1763,  and  after  his  death,  in  1781,  was  fasci- 
nated by  Gabriel  Piozzi,  an  Italian  music-teacher,  and  married 
Iiim  (1784).  In  1786  she  issued  her  valuable  Anecdotes  of  Dr. 
Johnson.  She  was  a  voluminous  writer  besides  and  a  small 
poetess. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  49 

took  in  him.  For  these  things  were  the  cruel  marks 
left  behind  by  a  life  which  had  been  one  long  conflict 
with  disease  and  with  adversity.  In  a  vulgar  hack 
writer,  such  oddities  would  have  excited  only  disgust; 
but  in  a  man  of  genius,  learning,  and  virtue,  their 
effect  was  to  add  pity  to  admiration  and  esteem. 
Johnson  soon  had  an  apartment,  at  the  brewery  in 
Southwark,^  and  a  still  more  pleasant  apartment  at 
the  villa  of  his  friends  on  Streatham  Common. ^  A 
large  part  of  every  year  he  passed  in  those  abodes,  — 
abodes  which  must  have  seemed  magnificent  and  luxu- 
rious indeed,  when  compared  with  the  dens  in  which 
he  had  generally  been  lodged.  But  his  chief  pleasures 
were  derived  from  what  the  astronomer  of  his  Abys- 
sinian tale  called  "the  endearing  elegance  of  female 
friendship."  Mrs.  Thrale  rallied  him,  soothed  him, 
coaxed  him,  and,  if  she  sometimes  provoked  him  by 
her  flippancy,  made  ample  amends  by  listening  to  his 
reproofs  with  angelic  sweetness  of  temper.  When  he 
was  diseased  in  body  and  in  mind,  she  was  the  most 
tender  of  nurses.  No  comfort  that  wealth  could  pur- 
chase, no  contrivance  that  womanly  ingenuity,  set  to 
work  by  womanly  compassion,  could  devise,  was 
wanting  to  his  sick-room.  He  requited  her  kind- 
ness by  an  affection  pure  as  the  affection  of  a  father, 
yet  delicately  tinged  with  a  gallantry  which,  though 
awkward,  must  have  been  more  flattering  than  the 
attentions  of  a  crowd  of  the  fools  who  gloried  in 
the  names,  now  obsolete,  of  buck  and  maccaroni.^    It 

^  A  district  on  the  south  side  of  the  Thames. 

2  About  six  miles  out  from  what  was  then  the  town. 

^  Dandy  or  fop.  Cf.  "  Yankee  Doodle."  Mac(c)aroni  was 
the  name  given  to  a  club  of  fast  young  men  who  had  been  abroad 
and  bad  brought  back  a  taste  for  foreign  dress  and  manners. 


L 


50  MACAULAY. 

should  seem  that  a  full  half  of  Johnson's  life,  during 
about  sixteen  years,  was  passed  under  the  roof  of  the 
Thrales.  He  accompanied  the  family  sometimes  to 
Bath,i  and  sometimes  to  Brighton, ^  once  to  Wales, 
and  once  to  Paris.  ^  But  he  had  at  the  same  time  a 
house  in  one  of  the  narrow  and  gloomy  courts  on  the 
north  of  Fleet  Street.  In  the  garrets  was  his  library, 
a  large  and  miscellaneous  collection  of  books,  falling 
to  pieces,  and  begrimed  with  dust.  On  a  lower  floor 
he  sometimes,  but  very  rarely,  regaled  a  friend  with 
a  plain  dinner,  —  a  veal  pie,  or  a  leg  of  lamb  and 
spinach,  and  a  rice  pudding.  Nor  was  the  dwelling 
uninhabited  during  his  long  absences.  It  was  the 
home  of  the  most  extraordinary  assemblage  of  inmates 
that  ever  was  brought  together.  At  the  head  of  the 
establishment  Johnson  had  placed  an  old  lady  named 
Williams,  whose  chief  recommendations  were  her 
blindness  and  her  poverty.  But,  in  spite  of  her  mur- 
murs and  reproaches,  he  gave  an  asylum  to  another 
lady  who  was  as  poor  as  herself,  Mrs.  Desmoulins, 
whose  family  he  had  known  many  years  before  in 
Staffordshire.  Room  was  found  for  the  daughter  of 
Mrs.  Desmoulins,  and  for  another  destitute  damsel, 
who  was  generally  addressed  as  Miss  Carmichael,  but 
whom  her  generous  host  called  Polly.  An  old  quack 
doctor  named  Levett,*  who  bled  and  dosed  coal-heav- 

^  The  leading  watering-place  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

2  A  famous  seaside  resort. 

«  In  1775. 

*  For  this  old  quack,  who  died  Jan.  17,  1782,  Johnson  wrote 
an  elegy  entitled  On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Robert  Levet,  a  Practiser 
in  Physic,  that  for  genuine  sentiment  and  admirable  style  de- 
serves a  high  place  in  its  class  of  compositions,  and  suggests  a 
regret  that  its  author  did  not  oftener  try  his  hand  on  similar 
subJMftf. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  51 

ers  and  hackney  -  coachmen,  and  received  for  fees 
crusts  of  bread,  bits  of  bacon,  glasses  of  gin,  and 
sometimes  a  little  copper,  completed  this  strange 
menagerie.  All  these  poor  creatures  were  at  constant 
war  with  each  other  and  with  Johnson's  negro  servant 
Frank.  Sometimes,  indeed,  they  transferred  their 
hostilities  from  the  servant  to  the  master,  complained 
that  a  better  table  was  not  kept  for  them,  and  railed 
or  maundered  till  their  benefactor  was  glad  to  make 
his  escape  to  Streatham,  or  to  the  Mitre  Tavern.^ 
And  yet  he  who  was  generally  the  haughtiest  and 
most  irritable  of  mankind,  who  was  but  too  prompt 
to  resent  anything  which  looked  like  a  slight  on  the 
part  of  a  purse-proud  bookseller,  or  of  a  noble  and 
powerful  patron,  bore  patiently  from  mendicants, 
who  bu.t  for  his  bounty  must  have  gone  to  the  work- 
house, insults  more  provoking  than  those  for  which 
he  had  knocked  down  Osborne  and  bidden  defiance 
to  Chesterfield.  Year  after  year  Mrs.  Williams  and 
Mrs.  Desmoulins,  Polly  and  Levett,  continued  to  tor- 
ment him  and  to  live  upon  him. 

The  course  of  life  which  has  been  described  was 
interrupted  in  Johnson's  sixty -fourth  year  by  an  im- 
portant event.  He  had  early  read  an  account  of  the 
Hebrides,  and  had  been  much  interested  by  learning 
that  there  was  so  near  him  a  land  peopled  by  a  race 
which  was  still  as  rude  and  simple  as  in  the  Middle 
Ages.  A  wish  to  become  intimately  acquainted  with 
a  state  of  society  so  utterly  unlike  all  that  he  had 
ever  seen,  frequently  crossed  his  mind.  But  it  is  not 
probable  that  his  curiosity  would  have  overcome  his 
habitual  sluggishness,  and  his  love  of  the  smoke,  the 
mud,  and  the  cries  of  London,  had  not  Boswell  im- 
»  Id  Fleet  Street. 


52  MACAULAY. 

portuned  Mm  to  attempt  the  adventure,  and  offered 
to  be  his  squire.  At  length,  in  August,  1773,  John- 
son •  crossed  the  Highland  line,  and  plunged  coura- 
geously into  what  was  then  considered,  by  most  Eng- 
lishmen, as  a  dreary  and  perilous  wilderness.  After 
wandering  about  two  months  through  the  Celtic  re- 
gion, sometimes  in  rude  boats  which  did  not  protect 
him  from  the  rain,  and  sometimes  on  small  shaggy 
ponies  which  could  hardly  bear  his  weight,  he  re- 
turned to  his  old  haunts  with  a  mind  full  of  new 
images  and  new  theories.  During  the  following  year 
he  employed  himself  in  recording  his  adventures. 
About  the  beginning  of  1775,  his  "Journey  to  the 
Hebrides "  was  published,  and  was,  during  some 
weeks,  the  chief  subject  of  conversation  in  all  circles 
in  which  any  attention  was  paid  to  literature.  The 
book  is  still  read  with  pleasure.  The  narrative  is 
entertaining;  the  speculations,  whether  sound  or  un- 
sound, are  always  ingenious;  and  the  style,  though 
too  stiff  and  pompous,  is  somewhat  easier  and  more 
graceful  than  that  of  his  early  writings.  His  preju- 
dice against  the  Scotch  had  at  length  become  little 
more  than  matter  of  jest;  and  whatever  remained  of 
the  old  feeling  had  been  effectually  removed  by  the 
kind  and  respectful  hospitality  with  which  he  had 
been  received  in  every  part  of  Scotland.  It  was,  of 
course,  not  to  be  expected  that  an  Oxonian  Tory 
should  praise  the  Presbyterian  polity  and  ritual,  or 
that  an  eye  accustomed  to  the  hedgerows  and  parks 
of  England  should  not  be  struck  by  the  bareness  of 
Berwickshire  and  East  Lothian.  But  even  in  cen- 
sure Johnson's  tone  is  not  unfriendly.  The  most 
enlightened  Scotchmen,  with  Lord  Mansfield  ^  at  their 
1  William  Murray,  Earl  of  Mansfield  (1705-1793),  one  of  the 
Greatest  of  British  jurists. 


(• 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  63 


bead,  were  well  pleased.  But  some  foolish  and  igno- 
rant Scotchmen  were  moved  to  anger  by  a  little  un- 
palatable truth  which  was  mingled  with  much  eulogy, 
and  assailed  him,  whom  they  chose  to  consider  as  the 
enemy  of  their  country,  with  libels  much  more  dis' 
honorable  to  their  country  than  anything  that  he  had 
ever  said  or  written.  They  published  paragraphs  in 
the  newspapers,  articles  in  the  magazines,  sixpenny 
pamphlets,  five-shilling  books.  One  scribbler  abused 
Johnson  for  being  blear-eyed;  another,  for  being  a 
pensioner ;  a  third  informed  the  world  that  one  of  the 
doctor's  uncles  had  been  convicted  of  felony  in  Scot- 
land, and  had  found  that  there  was  in  that  country 
one  tree  capable  of  supporting  the  weight  of  an  Eng- 
lishman. Macpherson,!  whose  "Fingal"  had  been 
proved  in  the  "  Journey  "^  to  be  an  impudent  for- 
gery, threatened  to  take  vengeance  with  a  cane.  The 
only  effect  of  this  threat  was,  that  Johnson  reiterated 
the  charge  of  forgery  in  the  most  contemptuous  terms, 
and  walked  about,  during  some  time,  with  a  cudgel, 
which,  if  the  impostor  had  not  been  too  wise  to  en- 
counter it,  would  assuredly  have  descended  upon  him, 
to  borrow  the  sublime  language  of  his  own  epic  poem, 
"like  a  hammer  on  the  red  son  of  the  furnace." 

^  The  details  of  the  Ossian  controversy  started  by  James 
Macpherson's  (1738-1796)  epic  Fingal  (1762),  which  purported 
to  be  a  translation  from  the  Gaelic  bard  of  the  third  century, 
A.  D.,  cannot  be  given  here.  It  is  generally  held  that  Macpherson 
drew  mainly  upon  his  own  imagination,  for  he  never  produced 
documentary  evidence  for  his  claims.  His  poems  were,  however, 
immensely  popular  for  a  while  both  in  England  and  on  the  Con- 
tinent.    Thomas  Jefferson  admired  him  greatly. 

2  In  the  division  entitled  "  Ostig  in  Sky."  All  mention  of 
Macpherson  by  name  is  carefully  avoided,  which  doubtless 
made  him  more  angry. 


L 


54  MAC  A  UL  AY. 

Of  other  assailants  Johnson  took  no  notice  what- 
ever. He  had  early  resolved  never  to  be  drawn  into 
controversy;  and  he  adhered  to  his  resolution  with  a 
steadfastness  which  is  the  more  extraordinary  because 
he  was,  both  intellectually  and  morally,  of  the  stuff 
of  which  controversialists  are  made.  In  conversa- 
tion he  was  a  singularly  eager,  acute,  and  pertina- 
cious disputant.  When  at  a  loss  for  good  reasons, 
he  had  recourse  to  sophistry;  and  when  heated  by 
altercation,  he  made  unsparing  use  of  sarcasm  and 
invective.  But  when  he  took  his  pen  in  his  hand, 
his  whole  character  seemed  to  be  changed.  A  hun- 
dred bad  writers  misrepresented  him  and  reviled  him ; 
but  not  one  of  the  hundred  could  boast  of  having 
been  thought  by  him  worthy  of  a  refutation,  or  even 
of  a  retort.  The  Kenricks,  Campbells,  MacNicols, 
and  Hendersons  ^  did  their  best  to  annoy  him,  in  the 
hope  that  he  would  give  them  importance  by  answer- 
ing them.  But  the  reader  will  in  vain  search  his 
works  for  any  allusion  to  Kenrick  or  Campbell,  to 
MacNicol  or  Henderson.  One  Scotchman,  bent  on 
vindicating  the  fame  of  Scotch  learning,  defied  him 
to  the  combat  in  a  detestable  Latin  hexameter :  — 

"  Maxime,  si  tii  vis,  cupio  contendere  tecum."  ^ 
But  Johnson  took  no  notice  of  the  challenge.  He 
had  learned,  both  from  his  own  observation  and  from 
literary  history,  in  which  he  was  deeply  read,  that 
the  place  of  books  in  the  public  estimation  is  fixed, 
not  by  what  is  written  about  them,  but  by  what  is 
written  in  them ;  and  that  an  author  whose  works  are 
likely  to  live  is  very  unwise  if  he  stoops  to  wrangle 

^  See  Hill's  or  Napier's  edition  of  Boswell  for  these  obscure 
men. 

2  "  I  desire  very  much  to  contend  with  you  if  you  are  willing.** 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON:  55 

with  detractors  whose  works  are  certain  to  die.  He 
always  maintained  that  fame  was  a  shuttlecock,  which 
could  be  kept  up  only  by  being  beaten  back  as  well 
as  beaten  forward,  and  which  would  soon  fall  if  there 
were  only  one  battledore.  No  saying  was  oftener  in 
bis  mouth  than  that  fine  apothegm  of  Bentley,^  that 
no  man  was  ever  written  down  but  by  himself. 

Unhappily,  a  few  months  after  the  appearance  of 
the  "Journey  to  the  Hebrides,"  Johnson  did  what 
none  of  his  envious  assailants  could  have  done,  and 
to  a  certain  extent  succeeded  in  writing  himself 
down.  The  disputes  between  England  and  her  Amer- 
ican colonies  had  reached  a  point  at  which  no  ami- 
cable adjustment  was  possible.  Civil  war  was  evi- 
dently impending;  and  the  ministers  seem  to  have 
thought  that  the  eloquence  of  Johnson  might  with 
advantage  be  employed  to  inflame  the  nation  against 
the  opposition  here,  and  against  the  rebels  beyond 
the  Atlantic.  He  had  already  written  two  or  three 
tracts  in  defence  of  the  foreign  and  domestic  policy 
of  the  government;  and  those  tracts,  though  hardly 
worthy  of  him,  were  much  superior  to  the  crowd  of 
pamphlets  which  lay  on  the  counters  of  Almon  and 
Stockdale.2  But  his  "Taxation  no  Tyranny  "^  was 
a  pitiable  failure.     The  very  title  was  a  silly  phrase, 

^  Richard  Bentley  (1662-1742),  in  some  respects  the  greatest 
elassical  scholar  England  has  produced.  He  has  gained  a  place 
in  English  literature  by  his  masterly  Dissertation,  in  which  he 
showed  that  the  so-called  Epistles  of  Phalaris  were  spurious, 
and  won  a  complete  victory  over  such  men  as  Atterbury,  Swift, 
and  Temple.  See  Swift's  Battle  of  the  Books,  Macaulay's  essay 
on  Atterbury,  and  the  Dissertation  itself. 

^  Well-known  booksellers  of  the  period. 

8  Appeared  in  1775,  and  was  a  defense  of  the  government 
policy  toward  the  American  colonies. 


56  MACAULAY. 

which  can  have  been  recommended  to  his  choice  by 
nothing  but  a  jingling  alliteration  which  he  ought  to 
have  despised.  The  arguments  were  such  as  boys 
use  in  debating  societies.  The  pleasantry  was  as 
awkward  as  the  gambols  of  a  hippopotamus.  Even 
Boswell  was  forced  to  own  that  in  this  unfortunate 
piece  he  could  detect  no  trace  of  his  master's  powers. 
The  general  opinion  was,  that  the  strong  faculties 
which  had  produced  the  Dictionary  and  "The  Ram- 
bler "  were  beginning  to  feel  the  effect  of  time  and  of 
disease,  and  that  the  old  man  would  best  consult  his 
credit  by  writing  no  more. 

But  this  was  a  great  mistake.  Johnson  had  failed, 
not  because  his  mind  was  less  vigorous  than  when  he 
wrote  "Rasselas"  in  the  evenings  of  a  week,  but  be- 
cause he  had  foolishly  chosen,  or  suffered  others  to 
choose  for  him,  a  subject  such  as  he  would  at  no  time 
have  been  competent  to  treat.  He  was  in  no  sense 
a  statesman.  He  never  willingly  read,  or  thought, 
or  talked  about,  affairs  of  state.  He  loved  biogra- 
phy, literary  history,  the  history  of  manners;  but 
political  history  was  positively  distasteful  to  him. 
The  question  at  issue  between  the  colonies  and  the 
mother  country  was  a  question  about  which  he  had 
really  nothing  to  say.  He  failed,  therefore,  as  the 
greatest  men  must  fail  when  they  attempt  to  do  that 
for  which  they  are  unfit;  as  Burke  would  have  failed 
if  Burke  had  tried  to  write  comedies  like  those  of 
Sheridan;^  as  Reynolds  would  have  failed  if  Rey- 
nolds had  tried   to   paint   landscapes   like   those   of 

1  Richard  Brinsley  (Butler)  Sheridan  (1751-1816)  in  his 
Rivals  and  School  for  Scandal  was,  with  the  possible  exception  of 
Goldsmith,  the  best  writer  of  comedies  since  Congreve's  tima 
Ke  was  also  a  noted  orator. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  67 

Wilson.^  Happily,  Johnson  soon  had  an  opportu- 
nity of  proving  most  signally  that  his  failure  was  not 
to  be  ascribed  to  intellectual  decay. 

On  Easter  Eve,  1777,  some  persons,  deputed  by  a 
meeting  which  consisted  of  forty  of  the  first  book- 
sellers in  London,  called  upon  him.  Though  he  had 
some  scruples  about  doing  business  at  that  season,  he 
received  his  visitors  with  much  civility.  They  came 
to  inform  him  that  a  new  edition  of  the  English  poets, 
from  Cowley  downwards,  was  in  contemplation,  and 
to  ask  him  to  furnish  short  biographical  prefaces. 
He  readily  undertook  the  task,  a  task  for  which  he 
was  preeminently  qualified.  His  knowledge  of  the 
literary  history  of  England  since  the  Restoration  was 
unrivalled.  That  knowledge  he  had  derived  partly 
from  books,  and  partly  from  sources  which  had  long 
been  closed,  —  from  old  Grub  Street  traditions ;  from 
the  talk  of  forgotten  poetasters  and  pamphleteers 
who  had  long  been  lying  in  parish  vaults ;  from  the 
recollections  of  such  men  as  Gilbert  Walmesley,  who 
had  conversed  with  the  wits  of  Button ;  ^  Gibber,^  wlic 
had  mutilated  the  plays  of  two  generations  of  drama- 
tists ;  Orrery,^  who  had  been  admitted  to  the  society 

1  Richard  Wilson  (1714-1782). 

2  Button's  coffee-house,  near  Covent  Garden,  was  frequented 
by  Addison  and  his  friends.  Its  proprietor  had  been  butler  to 
Lady  Warwick. 

8  Colley  Gibber  (1671-1757)  was  an  actor  and  a  dramatist  of 
Versatility  who,  absurdly  enough,  was  made  poet  laureate.  He 
was  satirized  in  the  Dunciad  and  felt  Dr.  Johnson's  wrath.  He 
is  now  remembered  chiefly  for  his  Autobiography  and  for  the 
line,  "  Richard  is  himself  again,"  which  he  introduced  into  his 
version  of  Richard  HI. 

*  John  Boyle  (1707-1662),  fifth  earl  of  Orrery,  who  wrote  a 
biography  of  Swift. 


58  MACAULAY. 

of  Swift;  and  Savage,  who  had  rendered  services  of 
no  very  honorable  kind  to  Pope.^  The  biographer, 
therefore,  sat  down  to  his  task  with  a  mind  full  of 
matter.  He  had  at  first  intended  to  give  only  a 
paragraph  to  every  minor  poet,  and  only  four  or  five 
pages  to  the  greatest  name.  But  the  flood  of  anec 
dote  and  criticism  overflowed  the  narrow  channel. 
The  work,  which  was  originally  meant  to  consist  only 
of  a  few  sheets,  swelled  into  ten  volumes,  —  small 
volumes,  it  is  true,  and  not  closely  printed.  The 
first  four  appeared  in  1779,  the  remaining  six  in 
1781.2 

The  "Lives  of  the  Poets"  are,  on  the  whole,  the 
best  of  Johnson's  works.  The  narratives  are  as  en- 
tertaining as  any  novel.  The  remarks  on  life  and  on 
human  nature  are  eminently  shrewd  and  profound. 
The  criticisms  are  often  excellent,  and,  even  when 
grossly  and  provokingly  unjust,  well  deserve  to  be 
studied ;  for,  however  erroneous  they  may  be,  they  are 
never  silly.  Ihey  are  the  judgments  of  a  mind  tram- 
meled by  prejudice  and  deficient  in  sensibility,  but 
vigorous  and  acute.  They  therefore  generally  con- 
tain a  portion  of  valuable  truth  which  deserves  to  be 
separated  from  the  alloy,  and  at  the  very  worst  they 
mean  something,  —  a  praise  to  which  much  of  what 
is  called  criticism  in  our  time  has  no  pretensions. 

Savage's  "Life"  Johnson  reprinted  nearly  as  it 
had  appeared  in  1744.  Whoever,  after  reading  that 
life,  will  turn  to  the  other  lives,  will  Be  struck  by  the 
difference  of  style.  Since  Johnson  had  been  at  ease 
in  his  circumstances,  he  had  written  little  and  had 

1  Helped  him  on  the  Dunciad.      See  Johnson's  Life  of  Savage, 

2  Matthew  Arnold  edited  the  more  important  Lives,  and  Mk 
Arthur  Waugh  has  since  edited  the  complete  work. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  69 

talked  much.  When,  therefore,  he,  after  the  lapse 
of  years,  resumed  his  pen,  the  mannerism  which  he 
had  contracted  while  he  was  in  the  constant  habit  of 
elaborate  composition  was  less  perceptible  than  for- 
merly; and  his  diction  frequently  had  a  colloquial 
ease  which  it  had  formerly  wanted.  The  improve ^ 
ment  may  be  discerned  by  a  skiKul  critic  in  the 
"Journey  to  the  Hebrides,"  and  in  the  "Lives  of  the 
Poets  "  is  so  obvious  that  it  cannot  escape  the  notice 
of  the  most  careless  reader. 

Among  the  lives  the  best  are,  perhaps,  those  of 
Cowley,  Dryden,  and  Pope.  The  very  worst  is,  be- 
yond all  doubt,  that  of  Gray.^ 

This  great  work  at  once  became  popular.  There 
was,  indeed,  much  just  and  much  unjust  censure; 
but  even  those  who  were  loudest  in  blame  were  at- 
tracted by  the  book  in  spite  of  themselves.  Malone^ 
computed  the  gains  of  the  publishers  at  five  or  six 
thousand  pounds.  But  the  writer  was  very  poorly 
remunerated.  Intending  at  first  to  write  very  short 
prefaces,  he  had  stipulated  for  only  two  hundred 
guineas.  The  booksellers,  when  they  saw  how  far 
his  performance  had  surpassed  his  promise,  added 
only  another  hundred.  Indeed,  Johnson,  though  he 
did  not  despise,  or  affect  to  despise,  money,  and 
though  his  strong  sense  and  long  experience  ought  to 
have  qualified  him  to  protect  his  own  interests,  seems 

1  Arnold  selected  the  Lives  of  Milton,  Addison,  Swift,  Dry- 
den, Pope  and  Gray,  but  he  was  influenced  by  the  place  they 
occupy  in  literature.  Johnson  was  not  well  fitted  to  appreciate 
Thomas  Gray  (1716-1771),  but  this  fact  hardly  accounts  for  the 
deficiencies  of  his  account  of  that  great  scholar  and  poet. 

2  Edmund  Malone  (1741-1812),  chiefly  noted  for  his  labors 
|tt  an  editor  of  Shakespeare.     He  also  edited  Boswell. 


eO  MACAULAY. 

\o  have  been  singularly  unskillful  and  unlucky  in  his 
literary  bargains.  He  was  generally  reputed  the  first 
English  writer  of  his  time,  yet  several  writers  of  his 
time  sold  their  copyrights  for  sums  such  as  he  never 
ventured  to  ask.  To  give  a  single  instance,  Robert- 
son ^  received  four  thousand  five  hundred  pounds  for 
the  "History  of  Charles  V. ;  "  and  it  is  no  disrespect 
to  the  memory  of  Robertson  to  say  that  the  "History 
of  Charles  V."  is  both  a  less  valuable  and  a  less 
amusing  book  than  the  "Lives  of  the  Poets." 

Johnson  was  now  in  his  seventy-second  year.  The 
infirmities  of  age  were  coming  fast  upon  him.  That 
inevitable  event  of  which  he  never  thought  without 
horror  was  brought  near  to  him,  and  his  whole  life 
was  darkened  by  the  shadow  of  death.  He  had  often 
to  pay  the  cruel  price  of  longevity.  Every  year  he 
lost  what  could  never  be  replaced.  The  strange  de- 
pendents to  whom  he  had  given  shelter,  and  to  whom, 
in  spite  of  their  faults,  he  was  strongly  attached  by 
habit,  dropped  off  one  by  one ;  and  in  the  silence  of 
his  home  he  regretted  even  the  noise  of  their  scolding- 
matches.  The  kind  and  generous  Thrale  was  no 
more,  and  it  would  have  been  well  if  his  wife  had 
been  laid  beside  him.  But  she  survived  to  be  the 
laughing-stock  of  those  who  had  envied  her,  and  to 
draw,  from  the  eyes  of  the  old  man  who  had  loved 
her  beyond  anything  in  the  world,  tears  far  more 
bitter  than  he  would  have  shed  over  her  grave. 
With  some  estimable  and  many  agreeable  qualities, 
she  was  not  made  to  be  independent.     The  control  of 

1  Dr.  William  Robertson  (1721-1793),  one  of  Johnson's  few- 
Scotch  friends.  The  history  of  the  great  Emperor  and  that 
relating  to  America  are  still  standard  books,  but  ^re  probably 
little  read. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  61 

ft  mind  more  steadfast  than  her  own  was  necessary  to 
her  respectability.  While,  she  was  restrained  by  her 
husband,  —  a  man  of  sense  and  firmness,  indulgent 
to  her  taste  in  trifles,  but  always  the  undisputed 
master  of  his  house,  —  her  worst  offences  had  been 
impertinent  jokes,  white  lies,  and  short  fits  of  pettish- 
ness  ending  in  sunny  good -humor.  But  he  was  gone ; 
and  she  was  left  an  opulent  widow  of  forty,  with 
strong  sensibility,  volatile  fancy,  and  slender  judg- 
ment. She  soon  fell  in  love  with  a  music-master 
from  Brescia,  in  whom  nobody  but  herself  could  dis- 
cover anything  to  admire.  Her  pride,  and  perhaps 
some  better  feelings,  struggled  hard  against  this 
degrading  passion;  but  the  struggle  irritated  her 
nerves,  soured  her  temper,  and  at  length  endangered 
her  health.  Conscious  that  her  choice  was  one  which 
Johnson  could  not  approve,  she  became  desirous  to 
escape  from  his  inspection.  Her  manner  towards 
him  changed.  She  was  sometimes  cold  and  some- 
times petulant.  She  did  not  conceal  her  joy  when  he 
left  Streatham ;  she  never  pressed  him  to  return ;  and 
if  he  came  unbidden,  she  received  him  in  a  manner 
which  convinced  him  that  he  was  no  longer  a  welcome 
guest.  He  took  the  very  intelligible .  hints  which  she 
gave.  He  read,  for  the  last  time,  a  chapter  of  the 
Greek  Testament  in  the  library  which  had  been 
formed  by  himself.  In  a  solemn  and  tender  prayer, 
he  commended  the  house  and  its  inmates  to  the  Di- 
vine protection,  and,  with  emotions  which  choked  his 
voice  and  convulsed  his  powerful  frame,  left  forever 
that  beloved  home  for  the  gloomy  and  desolate  house 
behind  Fleet  Street,  where  the  few  and  evil  days 
which  stiy.  remained  to  him  were  to  run  out.  Here, 
in  June,  1783,  he  had  a  paralytic  stroke,  from  which, 


L 


62  MAC  AULA  Y. 

however,  he  recovered,  and  which  does  not  appear  to 
have  at  all  impaired  his  intellectual  faculties.  But 
other  maladies  came  thick  upon  him.  His  asthma 
tormented  him  day  and  night.  Dropsical  symptoms 
made  their  appearance.  While  sinking  under  a  com- 
plication of  diseases,  he  heard  that  the  woman  whose 
friendship  had  been  the  chief  happiness  of  sixteen 
years  of  his  life  had  married  an  Italian  fiddler,  that 
all  London  was  crying  shame  upon  her,  and  that  the 
newspapers  and  magazines  were  filled  with  allusions 
to  the  Ephesian  matron  ^  and  the  two  pictures  in 
"Hamlet. "2  He  vehemently  said  that  he  would  try 
to  forget  her  existence.  He  never  uttered  her  name. 
Every  memorial  of  her  which  met  his  eye  he  flung 
into  the  fire.  She,  meanwhile,  fled  from  the  laughter 
and  hisses  of  her  countrymen  and  countrywomen  to  a 
land  where  she  was  unknown,  hastened  across  Mont 
Cenis,  and  leafrned,  while  passing  a  merry  Christmas 
of  concerts  and  lemonade  parties  at  Milan,  that  the 
great  man  with  whose  name  hers  is  inseparably  asso- 
ciated had  ceased  to  exist.  ^ 

He  had,  in  spite  of  much  mental  and  much  bodily 
affliction,  clung  vehemently  to  life.  The  feeling  de- 
scribed in  that  iine  but  gloomy  paper  *  which  closes 
the  series  of  his  "Idlers  "  seemed  to  grow  stronger  in 

^  See  Petronius  Arbiter,  chap.  xiii.  (Bohn).  The  matron  went 
down  to  die  in  the  tomb  where  her  husband  was  lying  dead,  and 
fell  in  love  with  a  guard  stationed  near  by.  The  story  is  found 
in  various  forms. 

2  Act  III.  scene  iv. 

^  Macaulay  seems  to  have  done  injustice  to  Mrs.  Piozzi  andl 
her  husband.     Johnson's  letter,  to  the  widow,  of  July  8,  1784, 
should  be  read  in  connection  with  this  passage.     It  is  one  of  the 
most  pathetic  in  literature.  » 

,   ■*  The  paper  mentioned  is  an  admirable  specimen  of  Johnson's 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  63 

him  as  his  last  hour  drew  near.  He  fancied  that  he 
should  be  able  to  draw  his  breath  more  easily  in  a 
southern  climate,  and  would  probably  have  set  out 
for  Rome  and  Naples,  but  for  his  fear  of  the  expense 
of  the  journey.  That  expense,  indeed,  he  had  the 
means  of  defraying;  for  he  had  laid  up  about  two 
thousand  pounds,  the  fruit  of  labors  which  had  made 
the  fortune  of  several  publishers.  But  he  was  un- 
willing to  break  in  upon  this  hoard,  and  he  seems 
to  have  wished  even  to  keep  its  existence  a  secret. 
Some  of  his  friends  hoped  that  the  government  might 
be  induced  to  increase  his  pension  to  six  hundred 
pounds  a  year;  but  this  hope  was  disappointed,  and 
he  resolved  to  stand  one  English  winter  more.  That 
winter  was  his  last.  His  legs  grew  weaker;  his 
breath  grew  shorter;  the  fatal  water  gathered  fast, 
in  spite  of  incisions  which  he  —  courageous  against 
pain,  but  timid  against  death  —  urged  his  surgeons  to 
make  deeper  and  deeper.  Though  the  tender  care 
which  had  mitigated  his  sufferings  during  months 
of  sickness  at  Streatham  was  withdrawn,  he  was  not 
left  desolate.  The  ablest  physicians  and  surgeons 
attended  him,  and  refused  to  accept  fees  from  him. 
Burke  parted  from  him  with  deep  emotion.  Wind- 
ham ^  sat  much  in  the  sick-room,  arranged  the  pil- 
lows, and  sent  his  own  servant  to  watch  at  night  by 
the  bed.     Frances  Burney,^  whom  the  old  man  had 

power  of  moralizing  in  a  sincere  and  moving  way.  It  should 
be  read  by  all  who  are  interested  in  the  Doctor,  whether  as  a 
writer  or  as  a  man. 

^  William  Windham  (1750-1810),  a  noted  parliamentary 
orator. 

2  1752-1840,  afterwards  Madame  d'Arblay.  (See  Macaulay's 
essay  on  hey.)  Her  novel  Evelina  is  a  classic  worthy  of  Macau- 
lay's  well-known  praise. 


^ 


64  MA  CAUL  AY. 

cherished  with  fatherly  kindness,  stood  weeping  at 
the  door ;  while  Langton,  whose  piety  eminently  qual- 
ified him  to  be  an  adviser  and  comforter  at  such  a 
time,  received  the  last  pressure  of  his  friend's  hand 
within.  When  at  length  the  moment,  dreaded 
through  so  many  years,  came  close,  the  dark  cloud 
passed  away  from  Johnson's  mind.  His  temper  be- 
came unusually  patient  and  gentle;  he  ceased  to 
think  with  terror  of  death  and  of  that  which  lies  be- 
yond death;  and  he  spoke  much  of  the  mercy  of  God 
and  of  the  propitiation  of  Christ.  In  this  serene 
frame  of  mind  he  died,  on  the  13th  of  December, 
1784.  He  was  laid  a  week  later  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  among  the  eminent  men  of  whom  he  had 
been  the  historian,  —  Cowley  and  Denham,  Dryden 
and  Congreve,  Gay,  Prior,  and  Addison.^ 

Since  his  death,  the  popularity  of  his  works  • 
the  "Lives  of  the  Poets"  and  perhaps  "The  Vanity 
of  Human  Wishes"  excepted — has  greatly  dimin- 
ished. His  Dictionary  has  been  altered  by  editors 
till  it  can  scarcely  be  called  his.  An  allusion  to 
his  "Rambler"  or  his  "Idler"  is  not  readily  appre- 
hended in  literary  circles.  The  fame  even  of  "Ras- 
selas "  has  grown  somewhat  dim.  But,  though  the 
celebrity  of  the  writings  may  have  declined,  the  celeb- 
rity of  the  writer,  strange  to  say,  is  as  great  as  ever. 
Boswell's  book  has  done  for  him  more  than  the  best 

^  For  these  great  inhabitants  of  "  Poets'  Corner  "  the  text  and 
notes  have  already  given  sufficient  explanation,  save,  perhaps,  in 
the  case  of  William  Congreve  (1670-1729),  the  brilliant  drama- 
tist, whose  comedies  are  in  some  respects  unrivaled,  and  of 
Matthew  Prior  (1664-1721),  who  as  a  writer  of  society  verse  is 
Btill  uneclipsed,  though  Praed  and  Austin  Dobson  have  followed 
iiim. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON, 


65 


of  his  own  books  could  do.  The  memory  of  other 
authors  is  kept  alive  by  their  works,  but  the  memory 
of  Johnson  keeps  many^of  his  works  alive.  The  old 
philosopher  is  still  among  us  in  the  brown  coat  with 
the  metal  buttons,  and  the  shirt  which  ought  to  be  at 
wash,  blinking,  puffing,  rolling  his  head,  drumming 
with  his  fingers,  tearing  his  meat  like  a  tiger,  and 
swallowing  his  tea  in  oceans.  No  human  being  who 
has  been  more  than  seventy  years  in  the  grave  is  so 
well  known  to  us.  And  it  is  but  just  to  say  that  our 
intiij^ate  acquaintance  with  what  he  would  himself 
have  called  the  anf ractuosities  ^  of  his  intellect  and  of 
his  temper  serves  only  to  strengthen  our  conviction 
that  he  was  both  a  great  and  a  good  man.^ 

^  That  is,  the  windings  and  turnings. 

2  The  style  of  this  concluding  paragraph  may  well  be  com- 
pared with  that  of  the  conclusion  of  the  essay  on  Milton.  It  is 
much  quieter  and  is  free  from  many  of  the  defects  of  the  more 
youthful  work,  yet  somewhat  lacks  the  elan  of  the  latter.  Indeed, 
the  whole  essay  shows  a  chastened  Macaulay  and  so  has  won 
high  praise  from  the  fastidious  critic,  whom  the  panegyric  on 
Milton  sometimes  displeased,  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold.  In  its 
evolution,  too,  the  essay  is  perfectly  simple  and  straightforward, 
so  that  an  analysis  by  paragraphs  would  be  an  easy  task  for  the 
youngest  student.  This  very  freedom  from  complexity  accounts 
IB  part  for  the  popularity  of  the  composition. 


EXTRACTS   FROM  JOHNSON,  BOSWELL,  AND 
PIOZZL 

The  following  are  quotations  from  Johnson's  Works,  Boswell's 
Johnson^  and  Madame  Piozzi's  Anecdotes  of  Johnson  to  which 
Macaulay  refers,  directly  or  indirectly,  upon  the  pages  designated. 

Page  3. 

Of  the  power  of  his  memory,  for  which  he  was  all  his  life 
eminent  to  a  degree  almost  incredible,  the  following  early 
instance  was  told  me  in  his  presence  at  Lichfield,  in  1776, 
by  his  step-daughter,  Mrs.  Lucy  Porter,  as  related  to  her  by 
his  mother.  When  he  was  a  child  in  petticoats,  and  had 
learnt  to  read,  Mrs.  Johnson  one  morning  put  the  common 
prayer-book  into  his  hands,  pointed  to  the  collect  for  the 
day,  and  said,  "  Sam,  you  must  get  this  by  heart."  She  went 
upstairs,  leaving  him  to  study  it  :  but  by  the  time  she  had 
reached  the  second  floor,  she  heard  him  following  het. 
"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  said  she.  "  I  can  say  it,"  he  re- 
plied ;  and  repeated  it  distinctly,  though  he  could  not  have 
read  it  more  than  twice.  Boswell. 

Page  8. 

He  had  another  particularity,  of  which  none  of  his  friends 
ever  ventured  to  ask  an  explanation.  It  appeared  to  me 
some  superstitious  habit,  which  he  had  contracted  early, 
and  from  which  he  had  never  called  upon  his  reason  to  dis- 
entangle him.  This  was  his  anxious  care  to  go  out  or  in  at 
a  door  or  passage,  by  a  certain  number  of  steps  from  a  cer- 
tain point,  or  at  least  so  as  that  either  his  right  or  his  left 
foot  (I  am  not  certain  which)  should  constantly  make  the 
first  actual  movement  when  he  came  close  to  the  door  or 
passage.  Thus  I  conjecture  :  for  I  have,  upon  innumerable 
occasions,  observed  him  suddenly  stop,  and  then  seem  to 
count  his  steps  with  a  deep  earnestness  ;  and  when  he  had 
neglected  or  gone  wrong  in  this  sort  of  magical  movement, 
I  have  seen  him  go  back  again,  put  himself  in  a  proper 
posture  to  begin  the  ceremony,  and,  having  gone  through 


k 


94  ADDITIONAL  NOTES. 

it,  break  from  his  abstraction,  walk  briskly  on,  and  join  his 
companion.  A  strange  instance  of  something  of  this  nature, 
even  when  on  horseback,  happened  when  he  was  in  the  Isle 
of  Skye.  Sir  Joshua  Keynolds  had  observed  him  to  go  a 
good  way  about,  rather  than  cross  a  particular  alley  in  Lei- 
cester Fields  ;  but  this  Sir  Joshua  imputed  to  his  having 
had  some  disagreeable  recollection  associated  with  it. . 

BOSWELL. 

Page  11. 

I  know  not  for  what  reason  the  marriage  ceremony  was 
not  performed  at  Birmingham  ;  but  a  resolution  was  taken 
that  it  should  be  at  Derby,  for  which  place  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  set  out  on  horseback,  I  suppose  in  very  good 
humour.  But  though  Mr.  Topham  Beauclerk  used 
archly  to  mention  Johnson's  having  told  him,  with  much 
gravity,  "  Sir,  it  was  a  love-marriage  on  both  sides,"  I  have 
had  from  my  illustrious  friend  the  following  curious  account 
of  their  journey  to  church  upon  the  nuptial  morn  (9th 
July)  :  —  "  Sir,  she  had  read  the  old  romances,  and  had  got 
into  her  head  the  fantastical  notion  that  a  woman  of  spirit 
should  use  her  lover  like  a  dog.  So,  sir,  at  first  she  told  me 
that  I  rode  too  fast,  and  she  could  not  keep  up  with  me  ; 
and  when  I  rode  a  little  slower,  she  passed  me,  and  com- 
plained that  I  lagged  behind.  I  was  not  to  be  made  the 
slave  of  caprice  ;  and  I  resolved  to  begin  as  I  meant  to  end. 
I  therefore  pushed  on  briskly,  till  I  was  fairly  out  of  her 
sight.  The  road  lay  between  two  hedges,  so  I  was  sure  she 
could  not  miss  it ;  and  I  contrived  that  she  should  soon  come 
up  with  me.  When  she  did,  I  observed  her  to  be  in  tears." 
This,  it  must  be  allowed,  was  a  singular  beginning  of  con- 
nubial felicity  ;  but  there  is  no  doubt,  that  Johnson,  though 
he  thus  showed  a  manly  firmness,  proved  a  most  affectionate 
and  indulgent  husband  to  the  last  moment  of  Mrs.  Johnson's 
life  ;  and  in  his  Prayers  and  Meditations,  we  find  very 
remarkable  evidence  that  his  regard  and  fondness  for  her 
never  ceased  even  after  her  death.  Boswell. 

Page  14. 

"  I  dined,"  said  he,  "  very  well  for  eight-pence,  with  vei 
good  company,  at  the  Pine- Apple  in  New  Street,  just  by.  Sei 
eral  of  them  had  travelled.  They  expected  to  meet  every  dayj 
but  did  not  know  one  another's  names.    It  used  to  cost  the] 


ADDITIONAL  NOTES. 


95 


pest  a  shilling,  for  they  drank  wine  ;  but  I  had  a  cut  of  meat 
for  sixpence,  and  bread  for  a  penny,  and  gave  the  waiter  a 
penny  ;  so  that  I  was  quite  well  served,  nay,  better  than  the 
rest  for  they  gave  the  waiter  nothing."  Boswell. 


Johnson  loved  his  dinner  exceedingly,  and  has  often  said 
in  my  hearing,  perhaps  for  my  edification,  "  that  wherever 
the  dinner  is  ill-got  there  is  poverty,  or  there  is  avarice,  or 
there  is  stupidity  ;  in  short,  the  family  is  somehow  grossly 
wrong  :  for,"  continued  he,  "  a  man  seldom  thinks  with  more 
earnestness  of  anything  than  he  does  of  his  dinner  ;  and 
if  he  cannot  get  that  well  dressed,  he  should  be  suspected 
of  inaccuracy  in  other  things."  One  day,  when  he  was 
speaking  upon  the  subject,  I  asked  him,  if  he  ever  huffed 
his  wife  about  his  dinner  ?  "So  often,"  rr plied  he,  "that 
at  last  she  called  to  me,  and  said,  *  Nay,  hold,  Mr.  Johnson, 
and  do  not  make  a  farce  of  thanking  God  for  a  dinner  which 
in  a  few  minutes  you  will  protest  not  eatable.'  "  Piozzi. 
Page  17. 

Two  of  my  companions,  who  are  growing  old  in  idleness 
are  Tom  Tempest  and  Jack  Sneaker.  Both  of  them  consider 
themselves  as  neglected  by  their  parties,  and  therefore  en- 
titled to  credit  ;  for  why  should  they  favour  ingratitude  ? 
They  are  both  men  of  integrity,  where  no  factious  interest 
is  to  be  promoted  ;  and  both  lovers  of  truth,  when  they  are 
not  heated  with  political  debate. 

Tom  Tempest  is  a  steady  friend  to  the  house  of  Stuart. 
He  can  recount  the  prodigies  that  have  appeared  in  the  sky, 
and  the  calamities  that  have  afflicted  the  nation  every  year 
from  the  Revolution  ;  and  is  of  opinion,  that,  if  the  exiled 
family  had  continued  to  reign,  there  would  have  neither  been 
worms  in  our  ships,  nor  caterpillars  on  our  trees.  He  won- 
ders that  the  nation  was  not  awakened  by  the  hard  frost  to  a 
revocation  of  the  true  king,  and  is  hourly  afraid  that  the 
whole  island  will  be  lost  in  the  sea.  He  believes  that  King 
William  burnt  Whitehall  that  he  might  steal  the  furniture  ; 
and  that  Tillotson  died  an  atheist.  Of  Queen  Anne  he  speaks 
with  more  tenderness,  owns  that  she  meant  well,  and  can  tell 
by  whom  and  why  she  was  poisoned.  In  the  succeeding 
reigns  all  has  been  corruption,  malice,  and  design.  He  be- 
lieves that  nothing  ill  has  ever  happened  for  these  forty 


96  ADDITIONAL  NOTES. 

/• 
years  by  chance  or  error  :  he  holds  that  the  battle  of  Det- 

tingen  was  won  by  mistake,  and  that  of  Fontenoy  lost  by 
contract  ;  that  the  Victory  was  sunk  by  a  private  order ; 
that  Cornhill  was  fired  by  emissaries  from  the  council  ;  and 
the  arch  of  Westminster  bi^dge  was  so  contrived  as  to  sink, 
on  purpose  that  the  nation  might  be  put  to  charge.  He 
considers  the  new  road  to  Islington  as  an  encroachment  on 
liberty,  and  often  asserts  that  broad  wheels  will  be  the  ruin 
of  England. 

Tom  is  generally  vehement  and  noisy,  but  nevertheless  has 
some  secrets  which  he  always  communicates  in  a  whisper. 
Many  and  many  a  time  has  Tom  told  me,  in  a  corner,  that 
our  miseries  were  almost  at  an  end,  and  that  we  should  see, 
in  a  month,  another  monarch  on  the  throne  ;  the  time  elapses 
without  a  revolution  ;  Tom  meets  me  again  with  new  in- 
telligence, the  whole  scheme  is  now  settled,  and  we  shall 
see  great  events  in  another  mouth. 

Johnson,  Idler,  No.  10. 

Nor  deem,  when  Learning  her  last  prize  bestows, 

The  g-litt'ring  eminence  exempt  from  woes  ; 

See,  when  the  vulgar  'scape,  despised  or  awed, 

Rebellion's  vengeful  talons  seize  on  Laud. 

From  meaner  minds  though  smaller  fines  content, 

The  plunder'd  palace,  or  sequester'd  tent ; 

Mark'd  out  by  dangerous  parts,  he  meets  the  shock, 

And  fatal  Learning  leads  him  to  the  block : 

Around  his  tomb  let  Art  and  Genius  weep, 

But  hear  his  death,  ye  blockheads,  hear  and  sleep. 

Johnson,   The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes. 
Page  18. 

Mr.  Johnson's  hatred  of  Scotch  is  so  well  known,  and  so 
many  of  his  bonmots  expressive  of  that  hatred  have  been 
already  repeated  in  so  many  books  and  pamphlets,  that  it  is 
perhaps  scarcely  worth  while  to  write  down  the  conversation 
between  him  and  a  friend  of  that  nation,  who  always  resides 
in  London,  and  who  at  his  return  from  the  Hebrides  asked 
him,  with  a  firm  tone  of  voice,  what  he  thought  of  his  coun- 
try ?  **  That  it  is  a  very  vile  country  to  be  sure,  sir;"  re- 
turned for  answer  Dr.  Johnson.  "  Well,  sir  !  "  replies  the 
other,  somewhat  mortified,  "  God  made  it."  "  Certainly  he 
did,"  answers  Mr.  Johnson  again,  "but  we  must  always 
remember  that  he  made  it  for  Scotchmen,  and  comparisons 
are  odious,  Mr.  S ;  but  God  made  hell."  Piozzi. 


ADDITIONAL  NOTES,  97 

Page  22. 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  told  me,  that  upon  his  return  from 
Italy  he  met  with  it  [the  Life  of  Savage']  in  Devonshire, 
knowing  nothing  of  its  author,  and  began  to  read  it  while  he 
was  standing  with  his  arm  leaning  against  a  chimney-piece. 
It  seized  his  attention  so  strongly,  that,  not  being  able  to  lay- 
down  the  book  till  he  had  finished  it,  when  he  attempted 
to  move,  he  found  his  arm  totally  benumbed.  The  rapidity 
with  which  this  work  was  composed  is  a  wonderful  circum- 
stance. Johnson  has  been  heard  to  say, "  I  wrote  forty-eight 
of  the  printed  octavo  pages  of  the  *  Life  of  Savage  '  at  a  sit- 
ting ;  but  then  I  sat  up  all  night."  Boswell. 

Page  23. 

While  the  Dictionary  was  going  forward,  Johnson  lived 
part  of  the  time  in  Holborn,  part  in  Gough  Square,  Fleet 
Street ;  and  he  had  an  upper  room  fitted  up  like  a  count- 
ing-house for  the  purpose,  in  which  he  gave  to  the  copyists 
their  several  tasks.  The  words  partly  taken  from  other 
dictionaries,  and  partly  supplied  by  himself,  having  been 
first  written  down  with  spaces  left  between  them,  he  de- 
livered in  writing  their  etymologies,  definitions,  and  various 
significations.  The  authorities  were  copied  from  the  books 
themselves,  in  which  he  had  marked  the  passages  with  a 
black-lead  pencil,  the  traces  of  which  could  easily  be  effaced. 
I  have  seen  several  of  them,  in  which  that  trouble  had  not 
been  taken ;  so  that  they  were  just  as  when  used  by  the 
copyists.  It  is  remarkable,  that  he  was  so  attentive  in  the 
choice  of  the  passages  in  which  words  were  authorised,  that 
one  may  read  page  after  page  of  his  Dictionary  with  im- 
provement and  pleasure.  Boswell. 

Page  24. 

In  full-blown  dignity,  see  Wolsey  stand, 

Law  in  his  voice,  and  fortune  in  his  hand : 

To  him  the  church,  the  realm,  their  powers  consign, 

Through  him  the  rays  of  regal  bounty  shine, 

Turn'd  by  his  nod  the  stream  of  honour  flows. 

His  smile  alone  security  bestows  : 

Still  to  new  heights  his  restless  wishes  tower, 

I  Claim  leads  to  claim,  and  power  advances  power  ; 

Till  conquest  unresisted  cease  to  please. 
And  rights  submitted,  left  him  none  to  cease. 
At  length  his  sovereign  frowns  —  the  train  of  state 
Mark  the  keen  glance,  and  watch  the  sign  to  hate. 


98  ADDITIONAL  NOTES, 

Where'er  he  turns,  he  meets  a  stranger's  eye, 
His  suppliants  scorn  him,  and  his  followers  fly ; 
Now  drops  at  once  the  pride  of  awful  state, 
The  golden  canopy,  the  glittering  plate, 
The  regal  palace,  the  luxurious  board. 
The  liveried  army  and  the  menial  lord. 
With  age,  with  cares,  with  maladies  oppress'd, 
He  seeks  the  refuge  of  monastic  rest. 
Grief  aids  disease,  remember'd  folly  stings. 
And  his  last  sighs  reproach  the  faith  of  kings. 

Johnson,  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes, 
Page  25. 

On  what  foundation  stands  the  warrior's  pride, 

How  just  his  hopes,  let  Swedish  Charles  decide  ; 

A  frame  of  adamant,  a  soul  of  fire, 

No  dangers  fright  him,  and  no  labours  tire  ; 

O'er  love,  o'er  fear,  extends  his  wide  domain, 

Unconquer'd  lord  of  pleasure  and  of  pain  ; 

No  joys  to  him  pacific  sceptres  yield, 

War  sounds  the  trump,  he  rushes  to  the  field  ; 

Behold  surrounding  kings  their  power  combine, 

And  one  capitulate,  and  one  resign : 

Peace  courts  his  hand,  but  spreads  her  charms  in  vain ; 

*'  Think  nothing  gain'd,"  he  cries,  "  till  nought  remain. 

On  Moscow's  walls  till  Gothic  standards  fly, 

And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  Polar  sky." 


His  fall  was  destined  to  a  barren  strand, 
A  petty  fortress,  and  a  dubious  hand  ; 
He  left  a  name,  at  which  the  world  grew  pale, 
To  point  a  moral,  or  adorn  a  tale. 

Johnson,  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes. 

As  I  went  into  his  room  the  morning  of  my  birthday  once 
and  said  to  him,  "Nobody  sends  me  any  verses  now, 
because  I  am  five-and-thirty  years  old  ;  and  Stella  was  fed 
with  them  till  forty-six,  I  remember."  My  being  just  re- 
covered from  illness  and  confinement  will  account  for  the 
manner  in  which  he  burst  out  suddenly,  for  so  he  did  with- 
out the  least  previous  hesitation  whatsoever,  and  without 
having  entertained  the  smallest  intention  towards  it  half  & 
minute  before  :  — 

"  Oft  in  danger,  yet  alive, 
We  are  come  to  thirty-five ; 
Long  may  better  years  arrive, 
Better  years  than  thirty-five. 


ADDITIONAL  NOTES,  99 

Could  philosophers  contrive 

Life  to  stop  at  thirty-five, 

Time  his  hours  should  never  driTe 

O'er  the  bounds  of  thirty-five. 

High  to  soar,  and  deep  to  dive, 

Nature  gives  at  thirty-five. 

Ladies,  stock  and  tend  your  hive, 

Trifle  not  at  thirty-five  ; 

For  howe'er  we  boast  and  strive, 

Life  declines  from  thirty-five : 

He  that  ever  hopes  to  thrive 

Must  begin  by  thirty-five  ; 

And  all  who  wisely  wish  to  wive 

Must  look  on  Thrale  at  thirty-five." 

**  And  now,"  said  he,  as  I  was  writing  them  down,  "  you 
may  see  what  it  is  to  come  for  poetry  to  a  Dictionary- 
maker  ;  you  may  observe  that  the  rhymes  run  in  alphabet- 
ical order."  And  so  they  do.  Piozzi^ 

Page  27. 

on  the  death  of  mb.  robert  levet,  a  practiser  in 

PHYSIC. 

Condemn'd  to  Hope's  delusive  mind, 

As  on  we  toil  from  day  to  day, 
By  sudden  blasts,  or  slow  decline, 

Our  social  comforts  drop  away. 

Well  tried  through  many  a  varying  year, 

See  Levet  to  the  grave  descend, 
Officious,  innocent,  sincere. 

Of  every  friendless  name  the  friend. 

Yet  still  he  fills  affection's  eye, 

Obscurely  wise,  and  coarsely  kind  ; 
Nor  letter'd  arrogance  deny 

Thy  praise  to  merit  unrefined. 

When  fainting  nature  call'd  for  aid. 
And  hovering  death  prepared  the  blow, 

His  vigorous  remedy  display' d 
The  power  of  art  without  the  show. 

In  misery's  darkest  cavern  known. 

His  useful  care  was  ever  nigh. 
Where  hopeless  anguish  pour'd  his  groan, 

And  lonely  want  retired  to  die. 


100  ADDITIONAL  NOTES. 

No  summons  mock'd  by  chill  delay, 
No  petty  gain  disdain'd  by  pride, 

The  modest  wants  of  every  day 
The  toil  of  every  day  supplied. 

His  virtues  walk'd  their  narrow  round, 
Nor  made  a  pause,  nor  left  a  void ; 

And  sure  th'  Eternal  Master  found 
The  single  talent  well  employ'd. 

The  busy  day  —  the  peaceful  night, 
Unf  elt,  uncounted,  glided  by ; 

His  frame  was  firm  —  his  powers  were  bright, 
Though  now  his  eightieth  year  was  nigh. 

Then,  with  no  fiery  throbbing  pain. 

No  cold  gradations  of  decay, 
Death  broke  at  once  the  vital  chain. 

And  freed  his  soul  the  nearest  way. 


Johnson. 


EPITAPH  FOR  MR.  HOGARTH. 

The  hand  of  him  here  torpid  lies, 
That  drew  th'  essential  form  of  grace  ; 
Here  closed  in  death  th'  attentive  eyes. 
That  saw  the  manners  in  the  face. 


Johnson. 


Page  28. 

"Almighty  God,  the  giver  of  all  good  things,  without 
whose  help  all  labour  is  ineffectual,  and  without  whose  grace 
all  wisdom  is  folly :  grant,  I  beseech  Thee,  that  in  this  my 
undertaking,  thy  Holy  Spirit  may  not  be  withheld  from  me, 
but  that  I  may  promote  thy  glory,  and  the  Salvation  both 
of  myself  and  others  ;  grant  this,  O  Lord,  for  the  sake  of 
Jesus  Christ,  Amen." 

Johnson,  Prayer  on  The  Rambler. 

Page  30. 

Her  wedding-ring  when  she  became  his  wife  was,  after 
death,  preserved  by  him,  as  long  as  he  lived,  with  an  affec- 
tionate care,  in  a  little  round  wooden  box,  in  the  inside  of 
which  he  placed  a  slip  of  paper,  thus  inscribed  by  him  in 
fair  characters,  as  follows: — 


ADDITIONAL  NOTES.  101 

"EheuI 

"ELIZ.  JOHNSON 

"  NuPTA  Jul.  9°  1736, 

"  mortua,  eheu ! 

"  Mart.  17°  1752."  Boswell. 


TO  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE  THE  EARL  OF  CHESTERFIELD. 

February  7, 1755. 

"  My  Lord, 

"  I  have  been  lately  informed  by  the  proprietor  of  *  The 
World '  that  two  papers,  in  which  my  '  Dictionary '  is 
recommended  to  the  public,  were  written  by  your  lord- 
ship. To  be  so  distinguished,  is  an  honour,  which,  being 
very  little  accustomed  to  favours  from  the  great,  I  know 
not  well  how  to  receive,  or  in  what  terms  to  acknowledge. 

"  When,  upon  some  slight  encouragement,  I  first  visited 
your  lordship,  I  was  overpowered,  like  the  rest  of  mankind, 
by  the  enchantment  of  your  address,  and  could  not  forbear 
to  wish  that  I  might  boast  myself  Le  vainqueur  du  vainqueur 
de  la  terre  ;  —  that  I  might  obtain  that  regard  for  which  I 
saw  the  world  contending  ;  but  I  found  my  attendance  so 
little  encouraged,  that  neither  pride  nor  modesty  would 
suffer  me  to  continue  it.  When  I  had  once  addressed  your 
lordship  in  public,  I  had  exhausted  all  the  art  of  pleasing 
which  a  retired  and  uncourtly  scholar  can  possess.  I  had 
done  all  that  I  could  ;  and  no  man  is  well  pleased  to  have 
his  all  neglected,  be  it  ever  so  little. 

"  Seven  years,  my  lord,  have  now  past,  since  I  waited  in 
your  outward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door  ;  dur- 
ing which  time  I  have  been  pushing  on  my  work  through 
difficulties,  of  which  it  is  useless  to  complain,  and  have 
brought  it,  at  last,  to  the  verge  of  publication,  without  one 
act  of  assistance,  one  word  of  encouragement,  or  one  smile 
of  favour.  Such  treatment  I  did  not  expect,  for  I  never 
had  a  patron  before. 

"  The  shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  acquainted  with 
Love  and  found  him  a  native  of  the  rocks. 

"  Is  not  a  patron,  my  lord,  one  who  looks  with  unconcern 
on  a  man  struggling  for  life  in  the  water,  and  when  he  has 
reached  ground,  encumbers  him  with  help  ?  The  notice 
which  you  have  been  pleased  to  take  of  my  labours,  had  it 
been  early,  had  been  kind ;  but  it  has  been  delayed  till  I 


102  ADDITIONAL  :nOTES. 

am  indifferent,  and  cannot  enjoy  it ;  till  I  am  solitary  and 
cannot  impart  it ;  till  I  am  known,  and  do  not  want  it.  I 
hope  it  is  no  very  cynical  asperity  not  to  confess  obligations 
where  no  benefit  has  been  received,  or  to  be  unwilling  that 
the  public  should  consider  me  as  owing  that  to  a  patron, 
which  Providence  has  enabled  me  to  do  for  myself. 

"  Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far  with  so  little  obli- 
gation to  any  favourer  of  learning,  I  shall  not  be  disap- 
pointed though  I  should  conclude  it,  if  less  be  possible,  with 
less;  for  I  have  been  long  av/akened  from  that  dream  of 
hope,  in  which  I  once  boasted  myself  with  so  much  exulta- 
tion. My  Lord,  your  lordship's  most  humble,  most  obe- 
dient servant,  Sam.   Johnson." 

There  is  a  curious  minute  circumstance  which  struck  me  in 
comparing  the  various  editions  of  Johnson's  "  Imitations  of 
Juvenal."  In  the  tenth  Satire* one  of  the  couplets  upon  the 
vanity  of  wishes  even  for  literary  distinction  stood  thus  :  — 

"  Yet  think  what  ills  the  scholar's  life  assail, 
Toil,  envy,  want,  the  garret,  and  the  jail." 

But  after  experiencing  the  uneasiness  which  Lord  Chester- 
field's fallacious  patronage  made  him  feel,  he  dismissed  the 
word  garret  from  the  sad  group,  and  in  all  the  subsequent 
editions  the  line  stands 

"  Toil,  envy,  want,  the  Patron,  and  the  jail." 

BOSWEIX. 

Page  32. 

The  Preface  furnishes  an  eminent  instance  of  a  double 
talent,  of  which  Johnson  was  fully  conscious.  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  heard  him  say,  "  There  are  two  things  which  I  am 
confident  I  can  do  very  well  :  one  is  an  introduction  to  any 
literary  work,  stating  what  it  is  to  contain,  and  how  it 
should  be  executed  in  the  most  perfect  manner  ;  the  other 
is  a  conclusion,  showing  from  various  causes  why  the  exe- 
cution has  not  been  equal  to  what  the  author  promised  to 
himself  and  to  the  public."  Boswell. 

"  In  this  work,  when  it  shall  be  found  that  much  is  omitted, 
let  it  not  be  forgotten  that  much  likewise  is  performed  ; 
and  though  no  book  was  ever  spared  out  of  tenderness  to 
the  author,  and  the  world  is  little  solicitous  to  know  whence 
proceeded  the  faults  of  that  which  it  condemns  ;  yet  it  may 


ADDITIONAL  NOTES.  103 

gratify  curiosity  to  inform  it,  that  the  English  Dictionary 
was  written  with  little  assistance  of  the  learned,  and  with- 
out any  patronage  of  the  great  ;  not  in  the  soft  obscurity 
of  retirement,  or  under  the  shelter  of  academick  bowers, 
but  amidst  inconvenience  and  distraction,  in  sickness  and  in 
sorrow  :  and  it  may  repress  the  triumph  of  malignant  criti- 
cism to  observe,  that  if  our  language  is  not  here  fully  dis- 
played, I  have  only  failed  in  an  attempt  which  no  human 
powers  have  hitherto  completed.  If  the  lexicons  of  ancient 
tongues,  now  immutably  fixed,  and  comprised  in  a  few  vol- 
umes, be  yet,  after  the  toil  of  successive  ages,  inadequate 
and  delusive  ;  if  the  aggregated  knowledge,  and  cooperat- 
ing diligence  of  the  Italian  academicians,  did  not  secure  them 
from  the  ©ensure  of  Beni  ;  if  the  embodied  criticks  of  France 
when  fifty  years  had  been  spent  upon  their  work,  were 
obliged  to  change  its  economy,  and  give  their  second  edi- 
tion another  form  ;  I  may  surely  be  contented  without  the 
praise  of  perfection,  which,  if  1  could  obtain,  in  this  gloomy 
solitude,  what  would  it  avail  me  ?  I  have  protracted  my 
work  till  most  of  those  whom  I  wish  to  please  have  sunk 
into  the  grave,  and  success  and  miscarriage  are  empty 
sounds  :  I  therefore  dismiss  it  with  frigid  tranquillity,  hav- 
ing little  to  fear  or  hope  from  censure  or  from  praise." 
Johnson,  Preface  to  the  Dictionary,  concluding  paragraph. 

Page  33. 

A  few  of  his  definitions  must  be  admitted  to  be  erroneous. 
Thus,  Windward  and  Leeward,  though  directly  of  opposite 
meaning,  are  defined  identically  the  same  way  ;  as  to  which 
inconsiderable  specks  it  is  enough  to  observe,  that  his  Pre- 
face announces  that  he  was  aware  that  there  might  be  many 
such  in  so  immense  a  work  ;  nor  was  lie  at  all  disconcerted 

»when  an  instance  was  pointed  out  to  him.  A  lady  once  asked 
him  how  he  came  to  define  Pastern  the  knee  of  a  horse  : 
instead  of  making  an  elaborate  defence,  as  she  expected,  he 
at  once  answered,  *  Ignorance,  Madam,  pure  ignorance." 

BOSWELL. 

Page  34. 

Many  of  these  excellent  essays  were  written  as  hastily  as 
an  ordinary  letter.  Mr.  Langton  remembers  Johnson,  when 
on  a  visit  to  Oxford,  asking  him  one  evening  how  long  It 
was  till  the  post  went  out ;  and  on  being  told  about  half  an 


104  ADDITIONAL  NOTES. 

hour,  he  exclaimed,  "  Then  we  shall  do  very  well."  He  upon 
this  instantly  sat  down  and  finished  an  "  Idler,"  which  it 
was  necessary  should  be  in  London  the  next  day.  Mr. 
Langton  having  signified  a  wish  to  read  it,  "  Sir  (said  he) 
you  shall  not  do  more  than  I  have  done  myself."  He  then 
folded  it  up  and  sent  it  off.  Boswell. 

Page  44. 

That  the  most  minute  singularities  which  belonged  to  him, 
and  made  very  observable  parts  of  his  appearance  and  man- 
ner, may  not  be  omitted,  it  is  requisite  to  mention,  that, 
while  talking,  or  even  musing  as  he  sat  in  his  chair,  he 
commonly  held  his  head  to  one  side  towards  his  right 
shoulder,  and  shook  it  in  a  tremulous  manner,  moving  his 
body  backwards  and  forwards,  and  rubbing  his  left  knee  in 
the  same  direction,  with  the  palm  of  his  hand.  In  the 
intervals  of  articulating  he  made  various  sounds  with  his 
mouth,  sometimes  as  if  ruminating,  or  what  is  called  chew- 
ing the  cud,  sometimes  giving  a  half-whistle,  sometimes 
making  his  tongue  play  backwards  from  the  roof  of  his 
mouth,  as  if  clucking  like  a  hen,  and  sometimes  protruding 
it  against  his  upper  gums  in  front,  as  if  pronouncing  quickly, 
under  his  breath,  too,  too,  too :  all  this  accompanied  some- 
times with  a  thoughtful  look,  but  more  frequently  with  a 
smile.  Generally,  when  he  had  concluded  a  period,  in  the 
course  of  a  dispute,  by  which  time  he  was  a  good  deal  ex- 
hausted by  violence  and  vociferation,  he  used  to  blow  out 
his  breath  like  a  whale.  This,  I  suppose,  was  a  relief  to  his 
lungs  ;  and  seemed  in  him  to  be  a  contemptuous  mode  of 
expression,  as  if  he  had  made  the  arguments  of  his  oppo- 
nent fly  like  chaff  before  the  wind.  Boswell. 

Page  45.  | 

Not  very  long  after  the  institution  of  our  Club,  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  was  speaking  of  it  to  Garrick.  "  I  like  it  much," 
said  he,  "I  think  I  shall  be  of  you."  When  Sir  Joshua 
mentioned  this  to  Dr.  Johnson,  he  was  much  displeased 
with  the  actor's  conceit.  "  He  7/  be  of  us,"  said  Johnson, 
"  how  does  he  know  we  will  permit  him  ?  The  first  duke  in 
England  has  no  right  to  hold  such  language."  However, 
when  Garrick  was  regularly  proposed,  some  time  afterwards, 
Johnson,  though  he  had  taken  a  momentary  offence  at  his 
arrogance,  warmly  and  kindly  supported  him,  and  he  was 


ADDITIONAL  NOTES.  105 

accordingly  elected,  was   a  most  agreeable  member,  and 
continued  to  attend  our  meetings  to  the  time  of  his  death. 

BOSWELL. 

Page  45. 

Dr.  Goldsmith  said  once  to  Dr.  Johnson  that  he  wished 
for  some  additional  members  to  the  Literary  Club,  to  give  it 
an  agreeable  variety,  "  for,"  said  he,  "  there  can  now  be  no- 
thing new  among  us  :  we  have  travelled  over  one  another's 
minds."  Johnson  seemed  a  little  angry,  and  said,  "  Sir, 
you  have  not  travelled  over  my  mind,  I  promise  you." 

BoswELL. 

Page  61. 

"Almighty  God,  Father  of  all  mercy,  help  me  by  Thy  grace, 
fhat  I  may  with  humble  and  sincere  thankfulness  remember 
the  comforts  and  conveniences  which  I  have  enjoyed  at  this 
place,  and  that  I  may  resign  them  with  holy  submission, 
equally  trusting  in  thy  protection  when  Thou  givest  and 
when  Thou  takest  away.  Have  mercy  upon  me,  O  Lord, 
have  mercy  upon  me.  To  thy  fatherly  protection,  O  Lord, 
I  commend  this  family.  Bless,  guide  and  defend  them, 
that  they  may  so  pass  through  this  world  as  finally  to  enjoy 
in  thy  presence  everlasting  happiness,  for  Jesus  Christ's 
sake,  Amen." 

"  I  was  called  early,"  his  note  continues,  "  I  packed  up 
my  bundles  and  used  the  foregoing  prayer,  with  my  morning 
devotions  somewhat,  I  think,  enlarged.  Being  earlier  than 
the  family,  I  read  St.  Paul's  farewell,  in  the  Acts,  and  then, 
read  fortuitously  in  the  Gospels,  which  was  my  parting  use 
of  the  library." 

Johnson,  Prayer  on  leaving  Thrale^s  Family. 

Page  62. 

No.  103. 

Satueday,  April  5,  1760. 

Respicere  ad  longse  jussit  spatia  ultima  vitse.     Juv. 

Much  of  the  pain  and  pleasure  of  mankind  arises  from  the 
conjectures  which  every  one  makes  of  the  thoughts  of  others  ; 
we  all  enjoy  praise  which  we  do  not  hear,  and  resent  con- 
tempt which  we  do  not  see.  The  Idler  may  therefore  be 
forgiven,  if  he  suffers  his  imagination  to  represent  to  him 
what  his  readers  will  say  or  think  when  they  are  informed 
that  they  have  now  his  last  paper  in  their  hands. 


106  ADDITIONAL  NOTES. 

Value  is  more  frequently  raised  by  scarcity  than  by  use. 
That  which  lay  neglected  when  it  was  common,  rises  in  es- 
timation as  its  quantity  becomes  less.  We  seldom  learn  the 
true  want  of  what  we  have,  till  it  is  discovered  that  we  can 
have  no  more. 

This  essay  will,  perhaps,  be  read  with  care  even  by  those 
who  have  not  yet  attended  to  any  other  ;  and  he  that  finds 
this  late  attention  recompensed,  will  not  forbear  to  wish 
that  he  had  bestowed  it  sooner. 

Though  the  Idler  and  his  readers  have  contracted  no  close 
friendship,  they  are  perhaps  both  unwilling  to  part.  There 
are  few  things  not  purely  evil,  of  which  we  can  say,  without 
some  emotion  of  uneasiness,  "  this  is  the  last."  Those  who 
never  could  agree  together,  shed  tears  when  mutual  dis- 
content has  determined  them  to  final  separation;  of  a  place 
which  has  been  frequently  visited,  though  without  pleasure, 
the  last  look  is  taken  with  heaviness  of  heart ;  and  the  Idler, 
with  all  his  chillness  of  tranquillity,  is  not  wholly  unaffected 
by  the  thought  that  his  last  essay  is  now  before  him. 

This  secret  horror  of  the  last  is  inseparable  from  a  thinking 
being,  whose  life  is  limited,  and  to  whom  death  is  dreadful. 
We  always  make  a  secret  comparison  between  a  part  and 
the  whole  :  the  termination  of  any  period  of  life  reminds  us 
that  life  itself  has  likewise  its  termination  ;  when  we  have 
done  anything  for  the  last  time,  we  involuntarily  reflect  that 
a  part  of  the  days  allotted  us  is  past,  and  that  as  more  are 
past  there  are  less  remaining. 

It  is  very  happily  and  kindly  provided,  that  in  every  life 
there  are  certain  pauses  and  interruptions  which  force  con- 
sideration upon  the  careless,  and  seriousness  upon  the  light ; 
points  of  time  where  one  course  of  action  ends,  and  another 
begins ;  and  by  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  or  alteration  of  em- 
ployment, by  changes  of  place  or  loss  of  friendship,  we  are 
forced  to  say  of  something,  "  this  is  the  last." 

An  even  and  unvaried  tenour  of  life  always  hides  from  our 
apprehension  the  approach  of  its  end.  Succession  is  not 
perceived  but  by  variation  ;  he  that  lives  to-day  as  he  lived 
yesterday,  and  expects  that  as  the  present  day  is,  such  will 
be  the  morrow,  easily  conceives  time  as  running  in  a  circle 
and  returning  to  itself.  The  uncertainty  of  our  duration  is 
impressed  commonly  by  dissimilitude  of  condition  ;  it  is  only 


ADDITIONAL  NOTES.  107 

by  finding  life  changeable  that  we  are  reminded  of  its 
shortness. 

This  conviction,  however  forcible  at  every  new  impression, 
is  every  moment  fading  from  the  mind  ;  and  partly  by  the 
inevitable  incursion  of  new  images,  and  partly  by  voluntary 
exclusion  of  unwelcome  thoughts,  we  are  again  exposed  to 
the  universal  fallacy  ;  and  we  must  do  another  thing  for  the 
last  time,  before  we  consider  that  the  time  is  nigh  when  we 
shall  do  no  more. 

As  the  last  Idler  is  published  in  that  solemn  week  which 
the  Christian  world  has  always  set  apart  for  the  examination 
of  the  conscience,  the  review  of  life,  the  extinction  of  earthly 
desires,  and  the  renovation  of  holy  purposes  ;  I  hope  that 
my  readers  are  already  disposed  to  view  every  incident  with 
seriousness,  and  improve  it  by  meditation  ;  and  that  when 
they  see  this  series  of  trifles  brought  to  a  conclusion,  they 
will  consider  that,  by  outliving  the  Idler,  they  have  passed 
weeks,  months,  and  years,  which  are  now  no  longer  in  their 
power  ;  that  an  end  must  in  time  be  put  to  everything  great, 
as  to  everything  little  ;  that  to  life  must  come  its  last  hour, 
and  to  this  system  of  being  its  last  day,  the  hour  at  which 
probation  ceases  and  repentance  will  be  vain  :  the  day  in 
which  every  work  of  the  hand,  and  imagination  of  the  heart 
shall  be  brought  to  judgment,  and  an  everlasting  futurity 
shall  be  determined  by  the  past.  Johnson. 

Page  62. 

to  mrs.  piozzi. 

London,  July  8th,  1784. 

Dear  Madam, — 

What  you  have  done,  however  I  may  lament  it,  I  have 
no  pretence  to  resent,  as  it  has  not  been  injurious  to  me  ; 
I  therefore  breathe  out  one  sigh  more  of  tenderness,  per- 
haps useless,  but  at  least  sincere. 

»I  wish  that  God  may  grant  you  every  blessing,  that  you 
may  be  happy  in  this  world  for  its  short  continuance,  and 
eternally  happy  in  a  better  state  ;  and  whatever  I  can  con- 
tribute to  your  happiness  I  am  very  ready  to  repay,  for  that 
kindness  which  soothed  twenty   years   of  a  life  radically 

I  wretched. 
Do  not  think  slightly  of  the  advice  which  I  now  presume 
to  offer.   Prevail  upon  Mr.  Piozzi  to  settle  in  England  :  you 


108  ADDITIONAL  NOTES. 

may  liye  here  with  more  dignity  than  in  Italy,  and  with  more 
security;  your  rank  will  be  higher,  and  your  fortune  more 
under  your  own  eye.  I  desire  not  to  detail  all  my  reasons  ; 
but  every  argument  of  prudence  and  interest  is  for  England, 
and  only  some  phantoms  of  imagination  seduce  you  to  Italy. 

I  am  afraid,  however,  that  my  counsel  is  vain,  yet  I  have 
eased  my  heart  by  giving  it. 

When  Queen  Mary  took  the  resolution  of  sheltering  her- 
self in  England,  the  Archbishop  of  St.  Andrews,  attempting 
to  dissuade  her,  attended  on  her  journey;  and  when  they 
came  to  the  irremediable  stream  that  separated  the  two  king- 
doms, walked  by  her  side  into  the  water,  in  the  middle  of 
which  he  seized  her  bridle,  and  with  earnestness  proportioned 
to  her  danger  and  his  own  affection  pressed  her  to  return. 
The  queen  went  forward.  If  the  parallel  reaches  thus  far, 
may  it  go  no  farther.  —  The  tears  stand  in  my  eyes. 

I  am  going  into  Derbyshire,  and  hope  to  be  followed  by 
your  good  wishes,  for  I  am,  with  great  affection,  your,  &c., 

Johnson. 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  FURTHER  STUDY.     109 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  FURTHER  STUDY. 

Special  points  for  investigation  are  suggested  throughout  the 
footnotes  to  the  essay;  to  these  the  following  may  be  added  :  — 

Endeavor  through  reading  such  books  as  Tom  BrowrCs  School- 
days to  get  a  good  idea  of  the  life  led  by  a  pupil  of  a  great  Eng- 
lish public  school. 

Consider  in  connection  with  Johnson's  experiences  at  Oxford 
the  alienation  from  their  universities  of  such  great  writers  as 
Milton,  Dryden,  Gibbon,  and  Shelley. 

Name  other  great  English  authors  whose  physical  defects 
were  notorious,  e.  g.  Pope. 

Examine  one  of  the  early  volumes  of  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

Examine  a  few  pages  of  Johnson's  Dictionary  and  compare 
them  with  some  great  modern  dictionary. 

tRead  Johnson's  London^  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  and  On  the 
Death  of  Mr.  Robert  Levet. 
Read  Rasselas,  and  try  to  form  an  opinion  as  to  the   justice 
of  Macaulay's  criticism,  also  to  determine  why  the  story  became 
and  has  remained  a  classic. 

Compare  Johnson's  Irene  with  Addison's  Cato  and  read  the 
chapter  on  the  drama  of  the  eighteenth  century  in  Brander 
Matthews's  The  Development  of  the  Drama.  This  chapter  can 
also  be  found  in  The  Sewanee  Review  for  January,  1903. 

Read  Johnson's  account  of  Gray  in  his  Lives  of  the  Poets,  and 
compare  with  it  the  essays  on  Gray  by  Matthew  Arnold  and 
James  Russell  Lowell. 

Read  one  or  more  of  the  best  of  Johnson's  Lives,  e.  g.  that  of 
Cowley.     (See  page  59.) 

Read  one  or  more  of  the  best  of  the  Rambler  papers  (page  30) 
and  compare  Johnson's  early  with  his  later  style. 

Read  Johnson's  Preface  to  his  edition  of  Shakespeare.  (Part 
of  this  may  be  found  in  Garnett's  English  Prose  from  Elizabeth 
to  Victoria.) 

Widen  your  acquaintance  with  Garrick,  Burke,  Gibbon,  Gold- 
smith, and  others  of  Dr.  Johnson's  great  contemporaries,  using 
the  articles  in  Craik's  English  Prose,  the  Encyclopcedia  Britan- 
nica  and  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography,  Boswell's  Life  of 
Johnson,  histories  of  English  literature  in  the  eighteenth  century, 


110     SUGGESTIONS  FOR   FURTHER  STUDY. 

and  the  bibllog^raphies  given  in  such  a  book  as  J.  Scott  Clark's 
Study  of  English  Prose  Writers. 

What  part  was  played  by  Dr.  Johnson  in  the  publication  of 
Goldsmith's  Vicar  of  Wakefield  ? 

Contrast  the  positions  taken  by  Johnson  and  Burke  with  re- 
gard to  the  struggle  of  the  American  colonies  against  Great 
Britain. 

Is  it  likely  that  any  one  in  our  day  could  become  such  a  liter* 
ary  dictator  as  Johnson  was  ? 


I 


I 


2Dl)f  IStijeWttie  iliteraturc  ^ttite 


L'ALLEGRO   AND    OTHER 
POEMS 


BY 


JOHN   MILTON 


EDITED  BY  HORACE  E.  SCUDDER 


mTH  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTES  FOR  CARE- 
FUL STUDY,  BY  HENRY  W.  BOYNTON,  M.  A 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

Boston :  4  Park  Street ;  New  York  :  85  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  378-388  Wabash  Avenue 


Copyright,  1895  and  1896, 
By  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY. 

All  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS. 

Biographical  Sketch 5 

On  Reading  Milton's  Veese ,       ,       13 

L'Allegro  and  II  Penseroso 

Introductory  Note 18 

I.  L'Allegro ,        ...        19 

XI.   II  Penseroso   .•••••••••23 

CoMus :  A  Mask 

Introductory  Note     •••••••••38 

Comus •••••...41 

LVCIDAS 

Introductory  Note     .        .        .        • 81 

Lycidas 83 

Sonnets 

I.  On  his  being  arrived  to  the  age  of  twenty-three      .       ,  93 

II.  To  the  Lord  General  Fairfax ,93 

III.  To  the  Lord  General  Cromwell 94 

IV.  To  Sir  Henry  Vane  the  Younger        .        .        •        •        •  95 
V.  On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piemont  •        •        •       •        •  95 

VL  On  his  Blindness  .        ..,««.»•  96 


BIOGEAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

John  Milton  was  born  in  the  heart  of  London, 
December  9,  1608.  His  father  was  born  very  near 
the  time  of  Shakespeare's  birth,  and  was  a  student  at 
Oxford  in  his  youth.  It  was  while  he  was  a  student 
that  England  was  wavering  between  Catholicism  and 
Protestantism.  The  poet's  grandfather  held  to  the 
old  order,  and  when  his  son  was  found  leaning  toward 
the  new  he  disinherited  him,  and  left  him  to  his  own 
devices.  Thereupon  the  student  went  up  to  London, 
and  shortly  established  himself  as  a  scrivener,  a  term 
applied  to  men  at  that  time  who  were  copyists  of 
legal  docaments,  law  stationers,  and  draftsmen  also  of 
legal  papers.  Milton  the  scrivener  prospered,  married, 
and  had  three  children  who  lived,  a  daughter  and  two 
sons,  John  Milton  being  younger  than  his  sister  and 
seven  years  older  than  his  brother. 

Thus  the  poet  came  of  a  father  who  sympathized 
with  the  new  order  of  things,  and  who  was  a  con- 
temporary of  Shakespeare.  Shakespeare  died  when 
Milton  was  eight  years  old,  but  Milton  was  nearly 
thirty  when  Ben  Jonson,  who  was  more  widely  known 
than  Shakespeare  in  his  day,  died,  and  he  was  eigh- 
teen years  old  when  Bacon  died.  Milton's  youth 
therefore  was  contemporaneous  with  the  closing  years 
of  the  august  period  of  English  dramatic  poetry,  and 
the  glory  of  the  spacious  days  of  the  great  Queen 
Elizabeth  was  still  within  the  near  memory  of  men. 
He  grew  up  also  in  a  time  when  there  were  mutteringa 


6  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

of  the  rising  storm  which  was  to  shake  England  to  its 
centre.  He  must  have  heard  much  in  his  boyhood  of 
the  attempt  made  by  King  James  to  marry  his  son  to  a 
Spanish  princess,  an  heir  to  the  throne  of  Protestant 
England,  and  a  daughter  of  the  house  which  was  the 
stanch  defender  of  the  Pope,  and  the  great  rival  and 
enemy  of  England  in  the  days  of  Elizabeth.  He 
must  have  been  aware  also  of  the  widening  breach 
between  King  and  Parliament.  He  was  seventeen 
years  old  when  Charles  I.  ascended  the  throne. 

When  this  took  place,  Milton  had  just  been  entered 
ftt  Christ's  College,  Cambridge.  His  schooldays  had 
been  spent  in  London  at  St.  Paul's  school,  and  he 
has  himself  recorded  his  devotion  to  books.  "  My 
father,"  he  writes,  "  destined  me  while  yet  a  little  boy 
for  the  study  of  humane  letters,  which  I  seized  with 
such  eagerness  that  from  the  twelfth  year  of  my  age  I 
scarcely  ever  went  from  my  lessons  to  bed  before 
midnight ;  which,  indeed,  was  the  first  cause  of  injury 
to  my  eyes,  to  whose  natural  weakness  there  were 
also  added  frequent  headaches.  All  which  not 
retarding  my  impetuosity  in  learning,  he  caused  me 
to  be  daily  iiistructed  both  at  the  grammar-school 
and  under  other  masters  at  home ;  and  then,  when  I 
had  acquired  various  tongues  and  also  some  not 
insignificant  taste  for  the  sweetness  of  philosophy,  he 
sent  me  to  Cambridge,  one  of  our  two  national 
universities." 

The  great  studies  in  which  Milton  was  nurtured 
were  Latin  and  Greek.  The  latter  had  been 
generally  studied  in  school  only  for  a  generation  or 
so.  It  was  a  new  study,  very  much  as  science  is  a 
new  study  now.  Hebrew  also  was  taught,  and  Mil- 
ton studied  it.      Moreover  by  his  father's  advice  he 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  I 

learned  to  read  and  speak  French  and  Italian,  and  his 
best  friend  at  school  was  Charles  Diodati,  a  young 
Englishman  of  Italian  descent.  But  besides  his 
learned  studies,  Milton  was  a  reader  of  English 
poetry.  The  first  folio  of  Shakespeare's  plays  was 
published  in  1623,  when  Milton  was  fifteen,  and  it  is 
clear  from  his  own  writing  that  he  knew  Shakespeare 
well,  but  after  all  Shakespeare  was  a  great  dramatist, 
and  Milton  was  born  out  of  the  days  when  the  drama 
was  the  great  form.  The  poetry  of  English  origin 
which  he  loved  best  was  that  of  Edmund  Spenser, 
whose  Faerie  Queene  was  published  in  1590.  Spen* 
ser  has  sometimes  been  called  the  poet's  poet.  He 
was  Milton's  at  all  events,  and  when  we  consider  that 
the  body  of  great  English  poetry  which  we  know  to- 
day consisted  in  Milton's  time  of  Chaucer,  Spenser, 
and  Shakespeare,  and  that  two  of  these  poets  were 
very  modern  to  him,  —  for  Milton  to  read  Spenser 
was  like  our  reading  Tennyson,  —  we  can  see  how 
largely  he  drew  his  poetic  nourishment  from  classic 
literature.  Indeed,  though  scholars  did  not  despise 
the  English  tongue,  it  did  not  have  to  them  then  the 
value  it  has  now.  Bacon  wrote  his  greatest  work  in 
Latin  so  as  to  be  read  more  generally  by  scholars, 
and  a  considerable  body  of  Milton's  poetry  is  in  Latin, 
When  he  was  nineteen  years  old  he  had  occasion 
to  engage  in  a  public  exercise  at  college.  There  had 
been  some  Latin  speeches,  and  when  they  were  over^ 
Milton  made  an  address  in  English  verse  to  his 
native  language  which  is  interesting  for  showing  the 
profound  respect  he  had  for  it,  and  how  energetically 
he  desired  to  put  his  best  thoughts  into  it,  and  to  use 
its  best  form ;  — - 


8  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH, 

**  Not  those  new-fangled  toys,  and  trimming  slight, 
AVhich  take  our  late  f  antastics  with  delight, 
But  call  those  richest  robes,  and  gay'st  attire, 
Which  deepest  spirits,  and  choicest  wits  desire." 

In  his  boyhood  Milton  had  scribbled  verses.  In 
college,  besides  his  Latin  poems  he  wrote  the  Ode  on 
the  Morning  of  Chrisfs  Nativity,  some  verses  on  the 
death  of  his  sister  Anne's  infant  child,  a  sonnet  on 
Shakespeare,  the  sonnets  on  the  university  carrier, 
Hobson,  and  a  number  of  other  poems  which  are  less 
read  but  bear  the  marks  of  his  fine  musical  sense, 
his  dignity,  and  the  somewhat  overmastering  influence 
of  his  studies.  He  gained  distinction  at  the  univer- 
sity. He  was  in  favor  with  the  authorities,  but 
unpopular,  at  first,  with  his  fellow  students,  who 
nicknamed  him  "  The  Lady,"  both  for  the  delicacy  of 
his  appearance  and  for  a  certain  reserve  of  demeanor. 
There  is  a  picture  extant  of  the  poet  at  the  age  of 
ten.  It  is  described  as  showing  a  grave,  fair  boy 
with  auburn  hair,  having  a  neat  lace  frill  and  a  black 
braided  dress  which  fitted  closely  round  his  chest  and 
arms.  He  was  already  called  a  little  poet,  and  his 
father  took  the  greatest  pride  in  him  and  taught  him 
the  music  which  he  himself  loved  and  knew  well. 
This  home-nurtured  boy  was  the  reserved,  delicate- 
minded  student,  who  kept  aloof  from  coarse  compan- 
ionship  as  he  had  taken  little  part  in  boyish  gameSo 
He  was  thought  vain  by  his  fellows,  and  there  is  no 
doubt  that  he  did  set  a  high  value  on  his  scholarly 
and  poetic  tastes.  There  is  another  picture  of  the 
poet  taken  at  the  age  of  twenty-one  and  shows  him  a 
singularly  clear-faced  and  handsome  fellow. 

His  father  evidently  intended  John  Milton  to  be  a 
priest  of  the  Church  of  England,  but  there  were  two 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH,  d 

forces  which  were  at  work  in  the  student  forbidding 
this.  He  was  acquiring  a  certain  independence  of 
mind  which  made  him  out  of  sympathy  with  the  grow- 
ing ecclesiasticism,  and  he  was  cherishing  a  noble  am- 
bition to  devote  himself  to  high  poetry.  So,  since  his 
father  had  now  retired  from  business  and  taken  him- 
self to  a  little  village  named  Horton  about  seventeen 
miles  west  of  London,  here  in  the  midst  of  green 
fields  intersected  by  numberless  brooks  and  small 
streams,  he  lived  quietly  and  studiously  for  haK  a 
dozen  years.  It  was  during  this  musing  country  life 
in  the  flush  of  his  opening  power  that  he  wrote  the 
minor  poems  which  would  have  given  him  a  great 
place  in  English  literature  had  he  never  written 
Paradise  Lost ;  for  here  he  wrote  the  lovely  pair  of 
poems,  L* Allegro  and  H  Penseroso^  here  he  penned 
the  playful  fancies  which  gave  poetic  dignity  to  festi- 
vals. Arcades  and  Comus,  and  here  he  wrote  the 
elegy  Lycidas^  which  rose  above  a  personal  lament 
into  the  place  of  a  noble  burst  of  patriotism. 

The  last  line  of  Lycidas  seems  to  intimate  a  de- 
sign on  Milton's  part  to  engage  in  new  poetic  enter- 
prises, but  if  he  had  such  design  he  laid  it  aside  for  a 
while  to  carry  out  a  long  cherished  plan  of  travel  on 
the  continent.  In  the  spring  of  1638  he  set  out  by 
easy  stages  for  Italy  and  in  the  fall  he  was  in  Flor- 
ence. With  his  mind  steeped  in  ancient  literature 
and  feeding  eagerly  on  the  new  Italian  literature  and 
art,  Milton  seems  to  have  had  an  intellectual  feast, 
and  the  companionship  which  he  held  with  the  fore- 
most men  in  the  cities  he  visited  was  of  the  same  sort 
which  he  held  with  books.  He  demanded  the  best, 
and  by  his  own  attainments  made  himself  welcomed 
by  the  best.      He  visited  Galileo,  then  blind  and  liv- 


10  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

ing  in  retirement,  and  was  constantly  with  men  of 
scholarship  and  culture.  At  home  he  gave  himself 
up  to  the  life  of  ancient  Rome,  and  ,he  was  planning 
further  journeys  when  news  came  to  him  at  Naples 
that  turned  him  homeward. 

"  While  I  was  desirous,"  he  says,  "  to  cross  into 
Sicily  and  Greece,  the  sad  news  of  civil  war  coming 
from  England  called  me  back  ;  for  I  considered  it 
disgraceful  that,  while  my  fellow-countrymen  were 
fighting  at  home  for  liberty,  I  should  be  traveling 
abroad  at  ease  for  intellectual  purposes."  The  civil 
war  did  more  than  break  up  Milton's  plans  for  travel ; 
it  changed  the  whole  course  of  his  life  as  he  had  laid 
it  out.  For  twenty  years  the  poet  was  lost  to  view  in 
the  patriot,  the  scholar,  and  the  man  of  public  affairs. 

For,  as  already  hinted  at,  Milton  had  been  born 
into  a  troubled  age,  of  a  family  which  had  taken  sides 
in  religion,  and  the  religious  contest  had  become 
political,  so  that  Puritanism  was  the  sign  of  protest 
against  kingly  monopoly.  Milton,  with  his  independ- 
ent cast  of  mind  and  his  passionate  nature,  was  in 
dead  earnest  and  he  could  not  be  a  mere  party  fol- 
lower. He  had  splendid  dreams  for  England,  and  all 
his  poetic  passion  seemed  to  find  vent^  in  pamphlet 
after  pamphlet  as  he  took  up  one  question  after  an- 
other. Some  of  these  questions  were  social  as  well 
as  political,  and  his  own  unhappy  domestic  life  gave 
an  impulse  to  some  of  his  reasoning,  for  his  sudden 
marriage  with  Mary  Powel  turned  out  badly,  and 
though  after  a  separation  she  came  back  to  him  and 
bore  him  three  daughters,  the  bitter  disappointment 
gave  occasion  for  much  passionate  writing  on  the 
subject  of  divorce. 

During  this  stormy  period  Milton  maintained  him^ 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  11 

self  as  a  schoolmaster,  but  gave  his  energy  to  his 
writings.  The  volume  of  his  prose  greatly  exceeds 
that  of  his  poetry,  but  it  is  like  the  editorial  work 
of  newspapers,  very  effective  for  its  purpose  at  the 
time  when  written  and  published,  but  quite  lost  to 
sis'ht  afterward.  There  are  one  or  two  of  his  books, 
however,  especially  the  one  called  Areopagitica ;  or 
the  Liberty  of  Unlicensed  Printing.,  which  are  still 
read  for  their  noble  English  and  their  great  thoughts. 
For  the  most  part,  however,  his  pamphlets  were 
crowded  with  arguments  and  invective  meant  to  do 
execution  in  the  heat  of  wordy  warfare.  During  the 
latter  part  of  the  period  he  was  Latin  Secretary  of  the 
Commonwealth  under  Cromwell;  that  is,  it  was  his 
business  to  translate  despatches  to  and  from  foreign 
governments.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  clamorous  din 
of  public  affairs,  there  came  from  him  those  noble 
spontaneous  sonnets  which  were  prompted  by  the 
massacre  in  Piedmont,  and  by  his  friendship  for 
Cromwell  and  Vane. 

There  is  an  affecting  sonnet  also  on  his  blindness, 
for  in  1652,  when  he  was  forty-three  years  old,  a 
gradual  failing  of  sight  had  ended  in  total  blindness. 
Thus  when  the  end  of  his  hopes  for  England  seemed 
to  have  come  and  the  kingdom  was  restored  in  1660, 
Milton  was  a  poor,  blind  man,  driven  into  obscurity 
by  the  incoming  to  power  of  those  he  had  opposed  all 
his  life.  How  strongly  he  felt  all  this  is  seen  in  his 
dramatic  piece  Samson  Agonistes. 

For  a  while  Milton  was  in  hiding  and  he  was  forced 
to  give  up  much  of  what  property  he  had.  He  lost 
besides  by  fire,  but  though  poor  in  worldly  goods  and 
blind,  his  mind  to  him  a  kingdom  was,  and  so,  bidding 
good-by  to  courts  and  the  whirl  of  public  life,  he  re- 


12  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

turned  to  a  scholar's  ways.  The  stream  which  had 
been  diverted  returned  to  the  channel  of  poetry,  and 
the  story  of  his  last  years  is  the  story  of  writing  Par- 
adise Lost  and  Paradise  Pegained.  He  listened  to 
readers  and  he  dictated  his  poems.  In  his  youth  he 
had  pondered  over  large  schemes  of  verse.  Now  in 
his  old  age,  after  taking  part  in  a  revolution  which 
had  been  set  in  motion  by  love  of  liberty  and  a  deep 
religious  earnestness,  he  took  the  great  theme  of  the 
human  race  in  its  relation  to  God.  The  largeness  of 
the  poet's  ideal,  a  largeness  which  had  been  before 
him  all  his  life,  finds  expression  in  this  great  epic, 
just  as  the  beauty  which  he  loved  finds  expression  in 
the  group  of  poems  printed  in  this  little  collection. 
Milton  died  November  8,  1674. 


ON  EEADING  MILTON'S  VERSE. 

The  to^ct  of  the  long  poems  included  in  this  vol« 
ame  follows  the  edition  of  1645  with  occasional  varia- 
tions suggested  by  the  edition  of  1673.  By  the  end 
of  1652  Milton  had  become  totally  blind,  and  the 
earlier  edition  therefore  could  be  the  only  one  which 
would  have  the  benefit  of  his  eyesight  in  the  pre- 
paration of  copy  and  the  correction  of  proof.  This 
is  an  important  consideration,  for  no  one  can  give  the 
most  casual  attention  to  Milton's  writings,  especially 
to  his  verse,  without  perceiving  the  scholarly  delight 
which  he  took  in  all  the  niceties  of  his  art. 

It  becomes  then  of  great  moment  in  reading  Mil- 
ton to  have  his  verse  just  as  he  left  it,  and  it  is  fortu- 
nate that  the  shorter  poems  here  printed  all  appeared 
in  the  fresh  strength  of  Milton's  young  manhood. 
At  a  superficial  view,  it  is  of  no  consequence  whether 
we  read  L" Allegro  in  a  text  which  is  modernized,  or 
in  a  text  which  scrupulously  follows  Milton's  own. 
Indeed  it  might  be  argued  that  a  listener  would  be 
better  off  if  the  reader  had  the  aid  of  the  more 
familiar  form,  inasmuch  as  there  would  be  fewer  ob 
stacles  for  the  eye  to  overcome.  But  a  closer  inspec- 
tion will  reveal  the  advantage  which  accrues  to  the 
slightly  archaic  form  here  given. 

Milton,  as  a  scholar,  was  one  of  the  arbiters  of 
orthography.  The  time  had  not  come  when  diction- 
ary makers  and  printers  fixed  the  exact  form.  Con- 
sequently he  varied  the  spelling  of  the  same  word 


14  ON  READING  MILTON S    VERSE. 

according  to  the  demands  of  rhythm  or  even  of  rhyme 
to  the  eye.  If  he  wished  the  accent  to  fall  lightly 
on  their^  he  spelled  it  thir.     If  he  wrote  a  line^ 

"  Com,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state," 

he  allowed  himself  to  spell  the  rhyme-making  word  of 
the  next  line  in  the  same  way, 

"  With  eev'n  step,  and  musing-  gate." 

The  instances  of  each  sort  are  many  and  very  inter« 
esting  to  trace.  The  line  just  quoted  affords  another 
example  of  his  delicate  ear.  He  spelled  even  in  a 
way  to  show  the  length  of  the  first  syllable  and  the 
elision  in  the  second.  The  reader  will  perceive  re- 
peatedly how  nicely  Milton  distinguishes  by  typo- 
graphic marks  between  syllables  dropped  and  sylla- 
bles sounded,  and  how  carefully  he  indicates  the  t 
and  the  d  sounds  in  past  participles.  The  student 
of  these  poems  will  constantly  be  delighted  by  these 
evidences  of  Milton's  punctilious  care. 

There  are  other  forms  of  spelling,  which  are  inter- 
esting in  an  historical  way.  When  one  sees  that 
Milton  wrote  Plowman^  and  center^  and  savory^  it 
sets  him  reflecting  that  the  orthography  which  is  so 
strongly  contested  is  not  the  innovation  of  an  imper° 
fectly  trained  lexicographer,  and  that  the  usage  of  a 
few  generations  of  London  writers  does  not  neces-^ 
sarily  determine  the  best  usage  of  to-day.  These 
and  similar  points  of  study  and  observation,  which 
are  sometimes  referred  to  explicitly  in  the  notes  and 
sometimes  left  for  the  student  to  discover  to  his  own 
pleasure,  afford  an  admirable  secondary  pursuit  in  the 
reading  of  Milton.  Those  who  read  this  book  for 
the  first  time  will  not  be  persons  unacquainted  with 
the  ordinary  forms  of  English,  and  what  they  meet 


ON  READING  MILTON S'  VERSE.  15 

here,  therefore,  will  not  serve  to  undermine  their 
confidence  in  the  accepted  spelling  of  the  day;  but 
they  will  be,  for  the  most  part,  students  ready  for 
an  introduction  to  one  of  the  most  pregnant  subjects 
for  intellectual  excitement,  the  study  of  words,  and 
the  slight  variation  from  regular  orthography  will 
suggest  many  interesting  excursions  in  language  It 
would  be  hard  to  find  a  book  better  calculated  to 
initiate  the  student  in  a  course  of  lexical  inquiry 
than  a  collection  of  Milton's  minor  verse  printed 
just  as  he  intended  it  to  be  printed ;  the  student 
will  have  opportunity  then  to  ask.  Is  this  a  form 
which  Milton  deliberately  chose,  or  is  it  the  common 
form  of  language  in  the  time  of  Milton?  and  the 
answer  in  each  case  is  likely  to  afford  him  great 
interest. 

We  have  said  that  this  study  of  words  is  a  second- 
ary pursuit.  It  is  a  great  gain  both  to  teacher  and 
pupil  to  have  such  a  secondary  pursuit  when  reading 
the  works  of  a  great  author.  But  the  primary  study 
of  Milton  supplies  another  reason  for  using  a  text 
which  follows  his  own  edition.  We  have  hinted  at 
it  in  referring  to  Milton's  delicate  ear.  "  Angelic," 
De  Quincey  calls  it,  and  he  adds :  "  Many  are  the 
prima  facie  anomalous  lines  in  Milton  ;  many  are 
the  suspicious  lines,  which  in  many  a  book  I  have 
seen  many  a  critic  peering  into,  with  eyes  made  up 
for  mischief,  yet  with  a  misgiving  that  all  was  not 
quite  safe,  very  much  like  an  old  raven  looking  down 
a  marrow  bone.  In  fact,  such  is  the  metrical  skill  of 
the  man,  and  such  the  perfection  of  his  metrical 
sensibility,  that,  on  any  attempt  to  take  liberties 
with  a  passage  of  his,  you  feel  as  when  coming  in  a 
forest,    upon   what   seems  a  dead   lion ;  perhaps   he 


16  ON  READING  MILTON S   VERSE. 

may  not  be  dead ;  nay,  perhaps  he  may  not  be  sleep* 
ing,  but  only  shamming.  And  you  have  a  jealousy, 
as  to  Milton,  even  in  the  most  flagrant  case  of  almost 
palpable  error,  that  after  all  there  may  be  a  plot  in 
it.  You  may  be  put  down  with  shame  by  some  man 
reading  the  line  otherwise,  reading  it  with  a  different 
emphasis,  a  different  caesura,  or  perhaps  a  different 
suspension  of  the  voice,  so  as  to  bring  out  a  new  and 
self-justifying  effect."  ^  And  De  Quincey  gives  an 
illustration  of  the  singular  enrichment  of  a  line  by 
proper  reading  when  he  takes  a  line  from  Samson 
Agonistes^ 

"  Ask  for  this  great  deliverer  now,  and  find  him 
Eyeless  in  Gaza,  at  the  mill  with  slaves," 

and  punctuates  it  thus,  following  Landor's  suggestion, 

"  Eyeless,  in  Gaza,  at  the  mill,  with  slaves." 

"  And  why  ?  "  he  asks  ;  "  because  thus  '  the  grief  of 
Samson  is  aggravated  at  every  member  of  the  sen- 
tence.' He  (like  Milton)  was  (1)  blind ;  (2)  in  a 
city  of  triumphant  enemies ;  (3)  working  for  daily 
bread ;  (4)  herding  with  slaves,  —  Samson  literally, 
and  Milton  with  those  whom  he  regarded  as  such." 

The  appeal  which  great  poetry  makes  is  through 
its  splendid  music.  No  comment  on  L^ Allegro  for 
example,  no  analysis  of  its  contents,  is  such  an  inter- 
pretation as  a  beautiful  reading  aloud  of  its  lovely 
measures.  What  would  we  not  give  if  we  could  have 
a  phonographic  repetition  of  Milton's  own  recital !  In 
the  absence  of  that  we  come  most  closely  to  Milton's 
voice  when  we  read  attentively  as  he  has  bidden  us 
read,  by   his   fine   distinctions   in   accent,  in   length 

1  Milton  vs.  Southey  and  Landor.  Volume  IV.  of  The  Works  a^ 
^omas  De  Quincey. 


ON  READING  MILTONS   VERSE.  17 

of  syllables,  in  pauses,  in  the  slurring  of  notes  or 
in  sharp  staccato  speech,  in  punctuation,  in  elision. 
These  refinements  of  reading  are  very  greatly  helped 
by  the  reading  of  his  text  as  he  meant  people  should 
read  it. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  undesirable  that  in  making  a  first 
acquaintance  with  Milton  we  should  be  embarrassed 
by  obstacles  which  do  not  add  either  to  the  music  or 
the  meaning  of  his  verse.  The  fashion  of  capitaliza- 
tion, for  example,  is  only  a  fashion,  and  therefore  no 
attempt  has  been  made  to  copy  the  edition  of  1646 
in  this  respect.  Again  the  use  of  the  apostrophe 
to  mark  the  possessive  case  was  very  irregular  in 
Milton's  time ;  nothing  is  gained  by  a  departure 
from  the  customary  regular  usage  of  the  present  time. 
Punctuation  also  is  simply  an  aid  to  clear  reading, 
and  an  unaccustomed  method  is  confusing,  not  helpful. 
Finally,  there  are  words  whose  variation  in  spelling 
from  that  now  current  is  rather  curious  than  signifi- 
cant, and  it  has  been  thought  better  to  spell  these  in 
the  customary  form  rather  ttian  to  puzzle  the  reader 
with  unfamiliar  and  perhaps  misleading  forms.  The 
present  text,  therefore,  while  a  verbatim  is  not  a  liter' 
atim  copy  of  that  of  1643. 


L' ALLEGRO  AND  IL  PENSEROSO. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

The  titles  of  these  two  poems  intimate  their  con- 
trasted character.  Milton  was  deep  in  his  Italian 
studies  when  he  wrote  of  The  Joyous  Man  and  The 
Pensive  One,  as  the  titles  may  freely  be  rendered. 
The  balance  of  parts  is  preserved  and  in  the  notes 
will  occasionally  be  found  specific  reminders,  but  it 
is  more  in  accordance  with  the  spirit  of  the  interpre- 
tation of  poetry  to  look  for  the  contrasts  in  masses  and 
in  broad  counterparts.  The  scheme,  indeed,  is  slightly 
artificial,  and  it  may  be  guessed  that  Milton  with  his 
reflecting  nature  should  have  written  the  second  of 
the  poems  first,  at  any  rate  that  he  should  have  given 
himself  to  its  composition  more  freely.  The  two 
poems  are  indeed  like  two  pieces  of  music,  one  in  a 
major,  the  other  in  the  minor  key,  and  poetry  is  apt  to 
find  in  the  minor  key  a  wider  range  of  expression.  It 
would  be  a  good  exercise  to  work  out  the  parallel  and 
contrast  which  underlie  the  two  poems.  It  should 
>iever  be  lost  out  of  sight  in  reading  them  that  they 
nre  not  descriptive  verses,  but  poems  in  which  nature 
and  human  nature  alike  are  seen  under 

"  The  light  that  never  was,  on  sea  or  land ; 
The  consecration,  and  the  Poet's  dream." 

Come  admirable  remarks  on  this  matter  may  be 
found  in  the  introduction  by  Mark  Pattison  to  the 
selection  of  Milton's  poems  printed  in  Ward's  ITi^ 
English  Poets,  Both  poems  appear  to  have  been 
written  between  1632  and  1638. 


L' ALLEGRO. 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  bom, 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  and  sights 
unholy  I 
6  Find  out  some  uncouth  cell. 

Where   brooding    darknes   spreads   his    jealous 
wings. 
And  the  night-raven  sings  ; 

There  under  ebon  shades,  and  low-brow'd  rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 
10      In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 
But  come,  thou  Goddes  fair  and  free, 
In  heav'n^yclep'd  Euphrosyne, 
And  h^  men,  heart-easing  Mirth, 
Whom  lovely  Venus  at  a  birth 
15  With  two  sister  Graces  more 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore  ; 

2.  So  natural  is  this  parentage,  that  at  first  one  is  half-disposed 
to  think  this  was  an  ancient  myth  instead  of  an  invention  of 
Milton's.  But  a  moment's  reflection  upon  the  word  in  its  origin, 
for  in  Greek  "  melancholy  "  is  "  black  bile,"  reminds  one  how 
readily  the  ancients  resolved  mental  disorder  into  physical  ail. 

8.  Lo-w-brow'd  =  overhanging. 

14.  At  a  birth.  As  we  say  one  at  a  time  ;  so  here,  it  is 
equivalent  to  three  at  one  birth. 

15.  The  two  sister  Graces  are  Aglaia  (Brightness)  and  Thalia 
(Bloom). 


20  V  ALLEGRO. 

Or  whether  (as  som  sager  sing) 
The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring, 
Zephyr  with  Aurora  playing, 
20  As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying, 
There  on  beds  of  violets  blew, 
And  fresh-blown  roses  washt  in  dew, 
Fill'd  her  with  thee  a  daughter  fair, 
So  buxom,  blith,  and  debonair. 
25  Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 

Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 

Quips,  and  Cranks,  and  wanton  Wiles, 

Nods,  and  Becks,  and  wreathed  Smiles, 

Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
3c  And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek ; 

Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides. 

And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 

Come,  and  trip  it  as  ye  go 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe, 

21.  Ble^<v=:blue.     This  is  one  of  Milton's  eye-rhymes. 

24.  Blith.  It  appears  as  if  Milton  wished  to  touch  the  word 
lightly,  with  the  short  i.  See  line  65,  where  hef  adds  the  cus- 
tomary e. 

28.  "Wreathed  Smiles.  The  fundamental  sense  of  wreath  is 
a  twist,  but  its  association  with  flowers  and  clouds  seems  for  the 
most  part  to  have  relieved  it  from  the  notion  of  pain  which 
attaches  to  its  other  form  writhe,  and  here,  therefore,  wreathed 
Smiles  is  offset  against  wrinkled  Care. 

33.  Come.  Milton  writes  it  here  and  throughout  the  poem, 
com,  apparently  to  shorten  the  sound,  and  make  it  more  beckon- 
ing by  omitting  the  final  e,  but  we  always  pronounce  it  thus. 

Trip  it.  From  a  poetic  and  literary  use,  such  a  form  has 
fallen  almost  exclusively  into  colloquial  use.  We  should  hardly 
expect  to  find  "  go  it,"  for  example,  in  a  piece  of  literature, 
though  in  a  few  plirases,  as  "  lord  it,"  literature  still  avails  itself 
of  the  form.  See,  for  this  line  and  the  next,  Shakespeare's  Th6 
Tempesty  Act  IV.  sc.  i.,  line  46. 


U  ALLEGRO,  21 

85  And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty ; 
And  if  I  give  thee  honor  due, 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crue, 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 

40  In  unreproved  pleasures  free ; 
To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 
And  singing  startle  the  dull  night, 
From  his  watch-towre  in  the  skies, 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise  ; 

45  Ihen  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good  morrow. 
Through  the  sweet-briar,  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine  : 
While  the  cock,  with  lively  din, 

60  Scatters  the  rear  of  darknes  thin, 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn  door, 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before : 
Oft  list'ning  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbring  morn, 

36.  One  frequently  finds  in  Milton,  in  consequence  of  his  lofty 
.pirit,  touched  with  large  visions  of  political  and  religious  life, 
passages  which  seem  very  modern  and  familiar,  as  in  this  asso- 
ciation of  freedom  with  the  mountains,  which  is  a  note  heard 
most  frequently  in  poetry  from  Wordsworth  down. 

38.  Crue,  i.  e.  crew.  In  Milton's  time  the  simple  sense  of  a 
gathering,  a  crowd,  prevailed  in  the  use  of  this  word,  though  the 
contemptuous  intonation  also  occasionally  was  heard. 

43.  To-wre.  See  the  same  word  made  a  dissyllable  in  line 
77. 

45.  To  come.  More  fully  this  would  be  "  to  see  him  come," 
as  before  Milton  wrote  "  to  hear  the  lark  begin." 

In  spite  of  sorro-w  =  to  spite  sorrow. 

52.  Struts  is  not  a  transitive  verb.  The  action  is  completed 
in  the  previous  line.  So  in  this  line  the  preposition  is  made  a 
postposition. 


^  V  ALLEGRO. 

56  From  the  side  of  som  hoar  hill, 

Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill: 

Some  time  walking,  not  unseen, 

By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 

Right  against  the  eastern  gate, 
m  Wher'  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 

Rob'd  in  flames,  and  amber  light. 

The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 

While  the  plowman  near  at  hand 

Whistles  o'er  the  furrow'd  land, 
65  And  the  milkmaid  singe th  blithe, 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe. 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 

Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Strait  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures, 
70  Whilst  the  lantskip  round  it  measures : 

Eusset  lawns,  and  fallows  gray, 

Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray ; 

Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast 

The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest : 

55.  Hoar  =  white  with  frost.  Observe  the  difference  ^n 
spelling  of  some  in  this  line  and  the  second  following. 

67.  Tells  his  tale  =  keeps  his  tally.  We  still  use  the  word 
tell  with  this  meaning  in  the  phrase  "  to  tell  off."  Tale  is 
closely  allied  to  tally. 

68.  See  Goldsmith's  The  Deserted  Village,  line  13. 

69.  Strait  =  straightway. 

70.  Lantskip.  So  Milton  spelled  landscape.  The  usual 
form  was  landskip. 

71.  La'wn  had  not  in  Milton's  time  the  exclusive  significance 
of  level  open  space  about  a  dwelling.  It  was  simply  any  open 
grassy  place  and  here  means  pasture. 

Fallo"w  again  means  here  grassy,  overgrown,  neglected  til- 
lage. The  colors  which  Milton  assigns  are  rather  the  dull  colors 
of  browsing  ground  than  nicely  discriminated  hues  of  different 
earths. 


VALLEGRO.  2S 

15  Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 

Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide. 

Towers,  and  battlements  it  sees 

Bosom'd  high  in  tufted  trees, 

Wher  perhaps  som  beauty  lies, 
80  The  cynosure  of  neighbouring  eyes. 

Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes, 

From  betwixt  two  aged  okes. 

Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met 

Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 
85  Of  hearbs,  and  other  country  messes, 

Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses ; 

And  then  in  haste  her  bowre  she  leaves. 

With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves ; 

Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 
90  To  the  tann'd  haycock  in  the  mead. 

Somtimes  with  secure  delight 

The  up-land  hamlets  will  invite, 

When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 

And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 
95  To  many  a  youth,  and  many  a  maid, 

75.  Pied.     Milton  wrote  pide,  as  above  he  vnrote  hrest. 

78.  We  are  more  familiar  with  the  meaning  of  bosom'd 
here  when  it  takes  the  form  "  embosomed." 

79.  Lies  r=  dwells. 

82.  Okes.     A  familiar  form  for  oaks  in  Milton*s  day. 

85.  Hearbs.  This  spelling  shows  the  pronunciation  which 
our  ancestors,  following  that  form,  corrupted  into  yarbs. 

88.  Both  Phyllis  and  Thestylis  are  rustic  maidens  in  classic 
poetry,  and  so  adopted  by  Milton,  as  he  had  already  used  the 
uames  of  Thyrsis  and  Corydon. 

91.  Secure  has  here  its  first  derivative  meaning,  sine  cura, 
free  from  care. 

92.  Up-land  =  inland  or  country,  rather  than  necessarily 
high  ground. 


24f  V  ALLEGRO. 

Dancing  in  the  chequer'd  shade ; 
And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 
On  a  sunshine  holyday, 
Till  the  live-long  day-light  fail. 

100  Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale, 
With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat, 
How  faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat, 
She  was  pincht  and  pull'd,  she  said, 
And  he,  by  friar's  lantjiorn  led, 

105  Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  swet. 
To  earn  his  cream-bowle  duly  set. 
When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn. 
His  shadowy  flail  hath  thresh'd  the  corn 
That  ten  day-labourers  could  not  end ; 

no  Then  lies  him  down  the  lubbar-fend, 

96.  Chequer' d.     Shakespeare,  in  Titus  Andronicusy  II.  iii.  14» 

15,  happily  defines  this  word  :  — 

"  The  green  leaves  quiver  with  the  cooling  wind 
And  make  a  chequer'd  shadow  on  the  ground." 

102.  Here,  as  so  often,  Milton  reminds  us  of  his  familiarity 
with  Shakespeare.     See  A  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dreamy  II.  i. 

103.  Said.  That  Milton  wrote  sed  seems  to  show  that  there 
was  a  choice  of  pronunciations,  sade  or  sed. 

104.  And  he.  In  the  liveliness  of  the  scene  Milton  is  indiffer- 
ent to  a  nice  discrimination  of  persons.  There  is  a  jumble  of 
male  and  female  voices.  A  maid  servant  says  she  was  "  pincht 
and  pull'd."  In  breaks  a  man  servant  with  his  story,  how  he 
was  misled  by  a  will-o'-the-wisp.  Another  still,  it  may  be,  tells 
how  Robin  Goodfellow  toiled.  The  Norwegians  have  the  same 
story  of  a  goblin,  and  peasants  still  set  out  bowls  of  porridge  for 
him. 

108.  Hath.  Hales  asserts  that  Milton  does  not  use  the  form 
lias. 

109.  End  =  make  an  end  of. 

110.  Lubbar-fend.  We  should  write  lubber-fiend.  Mrs. 
Ewing  has  a  pretty  tale,  of  Loh  Lie-by-the-Fire.  The  old  word 
Lob  still  lingers  in  New  England  in  Lob  Lane  in  the  country. 


V  ALLEGRO.  25 

And  stretch'd  out  all  the  chimney's  length, 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength ; 
And  crop-ful  out  of  doors  he  flings, 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

115  Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep. 
By  whispering  windes  soon  lull'd  asleep. 
Towred  cities  please  us  then, 
And  the  busie  humm  of  men, 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold 

120  In  weeds  of  peace  high  triumphs  hold. 
With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Eain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit,  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 

125  There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 
In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 
And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry, 

Indeed  it  is  to  be  suspected  that  many  a  love-lane  is  a  modem* 
ization  of  this  old  form. 

117.  The  force  of  then  will  be  understood  better  if  it  is  read 
as  the  first  word  in  the  line.  It  does  not  point  to  the  time  of 
the  preceding  line,  but  is  a  word  of  transition. 

118.  Humm.  The  duplication  of  the  m  increases  the  sound- 
effect. 

120.  Weeds  =  garments.  The  word  in  this  significance  is 
used  now  only  of  mourning  garments.  For  the  phrase  "  weeds 
of  peace  "  see  Troilus  and  Cressida,  Act  III.  sc.  iii.  1.  239. 

122.  Milton  wrote  cies,  a  common  form,  andjome.. 

125.  As  masques,  which  will  be  treated  later  in  ComuSj  were 
often  pageants  in  connection  with  the  marriage  festivities  of  the 
nobility,  the  figure  of  Hymen  was  a  frequent  one.  Mr.  Hales 
quotes  here  from  Ben  Jonson's  Hymencei  or  the  Solemnities  of 
Masque  and  Barrier  at  a  Marriage :  "  Entered  Hymen  ...  in 
a  saffron-colored  robe,  his  under  vestures  white,  his  socks  yel- 
low, a  yellow  veil  of  silk  on  his  left  arm,  his  head  crowned  with 
roses  and  marjoram,  in  his  right  hand  a  torch  of  pine-tree." 


26  U  ALLEGRO. 

With  mask,  and  antique  pageantry : 
Such  sights  as  youthful!  poets  dream 

180  On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 
Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on, 
Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  fancy's  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

135  And  ever,  against  eating  cares, 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs. 
Married  to  immortal  verse. 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce. 
In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 

140  Of  linked  sweetnes  long  drawn  out 
With  wanton  heed,  and  giddy  cunning. 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running; 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  ty 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony ; 

145  That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 
From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 

132.  Milton  himself,  a  lover  of  learning,  emphasizes  the  dis« 
tinction  which  was  common  in  his  day  between  Ben  Jonson,  who 
wrote  with  the  classics  always  in  his  thought,  and  was  the  cor- 
rect, regular  dramatist  of  the  day,  and  Shakespeare,  whose 
free,  unrestrained  manner  delighted  Milton,  though  he  set  him 
down  as  not  in  the  succession  of  classic  poets. 

135.  Eating  cares  is  an  exact  translation  of  a  passage  in 
Horace  ;  but  the  Biblical  phrase  "  the  zeal  of  thy  house  hath 
eaten  me  up"  is  a  similar  use. 

136.  Lydian  airs  were  soft  and  voluptuous. 

138.  Pierce.  The  rhyme  shows  how  this  word  was  pro- 
nounced by  Milton.  Now  and  then  one  hears  the  pronunciation 
as  an  old-fashioned  one,  but  it  is  not  infrequently  so  sounded  as 
a  proper  name. 

145.  Heave  was  not  in  Milton's  time,  as  now,  so  associated 
with  the  idea  heavy.  It  was  simply  to  raise,  and  not  necessarily 
to  raise  an  anchor. 


V  ALLEGRO.  27 

Of  heapt  Elysian  flowres,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 
ISO  His  half  regained  Eurydice. 

These  delights  if  tJb^^u  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


n. 

IL  PENSEEOSO. 

Hence,  vain  deluding  joys, 

The  brood  of  folly  without  father  bred! 
How  little  you  bested, 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys ; 
6  Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess, 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sunbeams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 
10      The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 
But  hail,  thou  goddes  sage  and  holy. 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy ! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 
15  And  therf ore  to  our  weaker  view, 
O'erlaid  with  blacl^,  staid  wisdom's  hue. 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem. 
Or  that  starr'd  Ethiope  queen  that  strove 
28  To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 

2.  That  is,  vain  deluding  joys  which  are  due  to  folly  alone. 
6.  Fond  =  foolish. 

19.  Starr'd  Ethiope  queen.  Cassiopeia,  fabled  to  have 
been  made  a  constellation. 

20.  The  story  runs  that  she  boasted  of  her  beauty  above  that 
of  the  Nereids,  and  for  punishment  was  made,  when  among  the 
stars,  to  be  turning  backward. 


IL  PENSEROSO.  29 

The  Sea-Nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended. 

Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended : 

Thee  bright-hair'd  Vesta,  long  of  yore, 

To  solitary  Saturn  bore ; 
25  His  daughter  she  (in  Saturn's  reign, 

Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain)  • 

Oft  in  glimmering  bowres  and  glades 

He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 

Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 
30  While  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 

Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure, 

Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 

All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 

Flowing  with  majestic  train, 
35  And  sable  stole  of  cipres  lawn, 

Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 

Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 

With  eev'n  step,  and  musing  gate, 

And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 
40  Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes  : 

There  held  in  holy  passion  still. 

Forget  thy  self  to  marble,  till 

With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast. 

Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast. 

22.  Higher  =:  more  highly. 

23.  Vesta  was  the  goddess  of  the  hearth,  and  the  fitness  of 
the  parentage,  which  is  of  Milton's  devising,  steals  out  of  the 
lines  that  follow. 

30.  Yet  =  as  yet. 

33.  All.  So  "all  on  a  summer's  day."  Milton  uses  grain 
for  Tyrian  purple. 

35.  Cipres  lawn  =i  Cyprus  lawn  =  black  crape.  See  Auto- 
lycus'  song  in  Shakespeare's  The  Winter^s  Tale,  Act  IV.  sc.  iv. 

36.  Decent  =:  comely. 
41.  Still  is  an  adjective. 


80  IL  PENSEROSO, 

45  And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace,  and  Quiet, 

Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 

And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 

Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing. 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 
50  That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure ; 

But,  first  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne, 

The  cherub  Contemplation ; 
55  And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 

'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song. 

In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  night, 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 
60  Gently  o'er  th'  accustom'd  oak; 

Sweet  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly, 

Most  musicall,  most  melancholy  ! 

Thee,  chauntress,  oft  the  woods  among, 

I  woo.  to  hear  thy  even-song ; 

49.  Leisure.     Milton  wrote  this  leasure. 

53.  Milton  knew  his  Bible,  especially  the  Old  Testament, 
well.     See  Ezekiel,  chapter  x.       , 

54.  Contemplation  has  five  syllables.  The  ending  ion  is 
commonly  dissyllabic  in  Shakespeare. 

55.  Hist.  A  curious  use  of  the  word.  Hales  says  it  is  equi- 
valent to  "  bring  silently  along."  Is  it  not  possible  that  Milton, 
having  adjured  Melancholy  to  come  as  his  companion,  and  to 
bring  for  other  company  Peace,  Quiet,  spare  Fast,  and  retired 
Leisure,  but  above  all  the  cherub  Contemplation,  treats  Silence 
itself  as  a  dumb  dog,  and  so  uses  the  word  which  would  apply 
to  the  ordering  of  a  dog,  —  'st  Silence  ! 

61.  Noise  is  not  necessarily  disagreeable  sound  in  Milton. 

64.  Even-song.  Milton  uses  here  an  ecclesiastical  phrase  in 
familiar  use  then,  just  as  in  L' Allegro,  1.  114,  he  refers  to  the 
matin  of  the  cock.  This  is  one  of  the  distinctly  contrasted  points 
in  the  two  poems. 


IL  PENSEROSO.  31 

65  And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 
On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green, 
To  behold  the  wand'ring  moon, 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon. 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 

ir\  Through  the  heav'n's  wide  pathles  way ' 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bow'd, 
Ptooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 
Oft  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 
I  hear  the  far-off  curfeu  sound, 

75  Over  som  wide-water'd  shore, 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar  ; 
Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 
Som  still  removed  place  will  fit, 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 

80  T^jach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom ; 
Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth. 
Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 
Or  the  belman's  drowsy  charm 
To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm : 

65.  Vuseen.     See  L'Allegro,  1.  57. 

68.  Noon.  The  night  in  this  poem  is  the  full  period,  and  the 
noon  of  -thQ  moon  corresponds  thus  to  midnight. 

69.  Been.     Milton  wrote  hin  as  giving  the  sound  better. 

74.  Curfeu.  Milton's  spelling  of  the  word  indicates  more 
explicitly  than  the  modern  form  its  origin. 

77.  That  is,  if  the  weather  forbids  this  out-door  consorting 
with  Melancholy,  then  some  quiet  room  will  serve. 

80.  This  line  readily  suggests  the  lines  in  Paradise  Lost,  L 
61-64. 

"  A  dungeon  horrible,  on  all  sides  round. 
As  one  great  furnace,  flam'd ;  yet  from  those 
No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible 
Serv'd  only  to  discover  sights  of  woe." 

84.  Nightly  =  in  the  night  time. 


32  IL  PENSEROSO. 

85  Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 
Be  seen  in  som  high  lonely  towr, 
Where  I  may  oft  out-watch  the  Bear, 
With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphear 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 

90  What  worlds,  or  what  vast  regions  hold 
The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook : 
And  of  those  daemons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground, 

95  Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 
With  planet,  or  with  element. 
Somtime  let  gorgeous  tragedy 
In  scepter'd  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebs,  or  Pelops'  line, 

100  Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine. 

Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 

88.  Thrice -great  Hermes  =  Hermes  Trismegistus.  Un- 
sphear. The  implication  of  the  word  is  that  the  spirit  of  Plato 
is  dwelling  in  a  sphere  apart  from  this  world  ;  to  unsphere  the 
spirit,  therefore,  is  to  bring  him  out  of  that  sphere  down  to  the 
world,  where  he  may  disclose  the  secret  of  immortality.  It  is 
probable  that  either  of  two  sounds  was  allowable,  just  as  now 
we  say,  as  we  may  prefer  in  poetry,  wind  or  windy  and  that 
Milton  rhymes  unsphear  with  hear. 

96.  When  Milton  wrote,  astrology  and  astronomy,  like  alchemy 
and  chemistry,  were  still  terms  almost  interchangeable. 

98.  Scepter'd  pall,  that  is,  in  robes  worn  by  a  king  bearing 
a  sceptre. 

99.  Thebs  =  Thebes. 

100.  These  three  were  the  great  subjects  of  Greek  tragedy. 

101.  Though  rare.  These  words  in  parenthesis  seem  to  inti- 
mate the  critical  attitude  which  Milton  took  toward  the  English 
drama.  He  was  writing  when  the  great  Elizabethan  period  had 
closed  and  popular  taste  was  turning  to  other  than  Shakespeare's 
plays„ 


IL  PENS  EROS  0.  33 

Ennobled  hath  the  buskin'd  stage. 
But,  O  sad  Virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musseus  from  his  bower, 

105  Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek. 
And  made  Hell  grant  what  Love  did  seeko 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told 

no  The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold, 
Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife, 
That  own'd  the  vertuous  ring  and  glass, 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass, 

ns  On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride  ; 
And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung, 
Of  turneys,  and  of  trophies  hung  ; 
Of  forests,  and  inchantments  drear, 

120  Where  more  is  meant  then  meets  the  ear. 

106.  "Warbled.  A  comma  placed  before  this  word  would 
allow  at  once  its  grammatical  place. 

109.  Him.     Chaucer. 

110.  Cambuscan  =  Cambres-Khan.  Chaucer,  who  writes 
the  word  Cambyusean,  throws  the  accent  on  the  first  syllable. 

112.  The  names  Camballo,  Algarsyf,  and  Canace  all  occur  in 
the  story  as  Chaucer  tells  it.     See  The  Squire's  Tale. 

113.  Vertuous  ==  possessing  power.  When  the  reviserfe  of 
the  New  Testament  came  to  Mark  vi.  30,  and  read,  "  And 
Jesus,  immediately  knowing  in  himself  that  virtue  had  gone  out 
of  him,"  they  saw  that  the  old  English  sense  had  disappeared 
from  common  use,  and  they  made  it  to  read  "And  straightway 
Jesus,  perceiving  in  himself  that  the  power  proceeding  from  him 
had  gone  forth." 

120.  This  is  especially  true  of  Spenser's  great  allegory  of 
The  Faerie  Queene,  which  Milton  no  doubt  had  in  mind,  as 
well  as  the  poems  of  Ariosto,  Tasso,  and  other  Italian  romantic 


34  IL  PENSEROSO. 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career. 

Till  Civil-suited  Morn  appear, 

Not  trickt  and  f  rounct  as  she  was  wont 

With  the  Attick  boy  to  hunt, 
225  But  cherchef 't  in  a  comely  cloud, 

While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 

Or  usher'd  with  a  shower  still, 

When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill. 

Ending  on  the  russling  leaves, 
Sio  With  minute  drops  from  off  the  eaves. 

And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 

His  flaring  beams,  me,  Goddes,  bring 

To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves. 

And  shadows  brown  that  Sylvan  loves 
135  Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak. 

Where  the  rude  ax  with  heaved  stroke 

Was  never  heard  the  Nymphs  to  daunt. 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallow'd  haunt. 

There  in  close  covert  by  som  brook, 

writers  with  whom  he  was  very  familiar.     The  use  of  then  foy. 
than  shows  the  derivation  of  the  latter  form. 
122.  Compare  Romeo  and  Juliet,  iii.  2  :  — 

"  Come,  civil  night, 
Thou  sober-suited  matron,  all  in  black." 

The  use  of  suit  for  clothing  is  common  enough  now.     In  U  AU 
legrb,  morn  was  decked  out  showily. 

124.  Attick  boy.  In  Ovid's  story,  Aurora  or  the  Dawn  was 
in  love  with  Cephalus  and  went  out  hunting  with  him. 

125.  Cherchef't.  The  word  survives  in  the  second  part  of 
handkerchief.  Its  formation  is  similar  to  that  of  curfeu.  We 
now  write  kerchief*d. 

134.  Sylvan  =  Sylvanus,  or  Pan,  the  woody  god. 

135.  Monumental.  Another  favorite  word  applied  by  poets 
to  majestic  trees  is  immemorial. 


IL  PENSEROSO.  35 

140  Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look, 
Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye, 
While  the  bee  with  honied  thigh, 
That  at  her  flowry  work  doth  sing^ 
And  the  waters  murmuring, 

145  With  such  consort  as  they  keep, 
Entice  the  dewy-feather'd  sleep  ; 
And  let  som  strange  mysterious  dream, 
Wave  at  his  wings,  in  airy  stream 
Of  lively  portraiture  display'd, 

150  Softly  on  my  eye-lids  laid. 

And  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breath 
Above,  about  or  underneath, 
Sent  by  som  spirit  to  mortals  good, 
Or  th'  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

155  But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 


140.  "  Profaner  =r  somewhat,  or  at  all  prof ane  =  prof amsA, 
if  there  were  such  a  word.  Such  is  frequently  the  force  in 
Latin  also  of  what  is  called  the  comparative  degree  :  thus  senior 
=  somewhat  old,  elderly."     Hales. 

145.  Consort  r=  harmony. 

150.  The  four  lines  closing  with  this  are  somewhat  perplex- 
ing, chiefly  because  of  the  insertion  of  at  in  the  phrase  "  wave 
at  his  wings."  The  most  reasonable  interpretation  appears  to 
be  that  which  understands  a  reflection  in  the  airy  stream  ;  the 
dream  hovering  over  the  airy  stream  sees  below  his  winged 
movement  repeated,  and  as  in  Wordsworth,  we  see  — 

"  The  swan  on  still  St.  Mary's  Lake 
Float  double,  swan  and  shadow,"  — 

SO  here  the  sleeper's  imagination  descries  the  double  image. 

151.  Breath,  i.  e.  breathe,  the  hope  being  expressed  that  sweet 
music  may  breathe,  as  the  sleeper  wakes  ;  the  word  should 
rhyme  with  the  last  one  in  the  following  line. 


86  IL  PENSEROSO. 

To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale, 
And  love  the  high  embowed  roof, 
With  antick  pillars  massy  proof. 
And  storied  windows  richly  dight, 

160  Casting  a  dimm  religious  light. 
There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow, 
To  the  full  voic'd  Quire  below, 
In  service  high,  and  anthems  clear, 
As  may  with  sweetnes,  through  mine  ear, 

155  Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 

And  bring  all  Heav'n  before  mine  eyes. 
And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peacef  all  hermitage. 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 

170  Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  star  that  heav'n  doth  shew. 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew  ; 
Till  old  experience  do  attain 

156.  Studious  cloister's  pale,  i.  e.  to  walk  a  cloistered 
inclosure  devoted  to  study  and  learning.  We  use  the  phrase 
"  without  the  pale  of  the  church,"  and  the  word*  reappears  in 
palings,  fences,  that  is,  marking  the  pale  or  inclosure. 

157.  It  has  been  well  said  bv  Mr.  Hales  that  "  Milton  was  one 
of  the  latest  true  lovers  of  Gothic  architecture  when  the  taste 
for  it  was  declining,  as  Gray  was  one  of  the  earliest  when  the 
taste  was  reviving." 

158.  Antick.  If  one  compares  this  word  with  its  exact  cor- 
relative here,  antique,  he  will  observe  a  singular  evolution  in  use. 
Massy  =  massive ;  proof  =  able  to  bear  the  great  weight  rest- 
ing on  the  pillars. 

159.  Storied  vrindcws.  Is  Milton  here  referring  to  win- 
dows containing  scenes  and  persons  depicted  on  them,  or  to 
windows  in  the  clerestory  of  the  church  ? 

162.  It   is   comparatively  in  recent  times    that    quire  haa 
become  choir^ 
164.  Ab  =  such  as. 


IL  PENSEROSO.  37 

To  somthing  like  prophetic  strain. 
175  These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give, 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 

174.  Prophetic,  Milton's  use  of  the  word  was  undoubtedly 
that  of  his  generation  ;  the  prophet  was  to  be  a  seer,  rather  than 
a  foreteller  of  events. 


COMUS:  A  MASK. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

What  is  a  mask?  To  find  the  best  illustration 
we  must  go  to  the  great  period  of  the  English  drama. 
While  Shakespeare's  plays  were  being  given  with  very 
little  scenery  and  with  nothing  of  that  gorgeousness 
of  apparatus  which  now  makes  a  great  spectacle,  when 
for  instance  Henry  Irving  puts  Henry  the  Eighth  on 
'the  stage,  Ben  Jonson  was  producing  masks  which 
brought  into  requisition  the  genius  of  a  great  archi- 
tect like  Inigo  Jones,  who  built  splendid  palaces  and 
arches  of  pasteboard  for  the  representation  of  these 
pageants.  Moreover,  though  plays  were  given  some- 
times at  court,  they  were  then  as  now  popular  enter- 
tainments to  which  one  could  go  on  paying  the  price 
of  admission ;  whereas  masks  were  more  in  the  nature 
of  private  theatricals ;  they  were  entertainments  of  a 
social  nature,  produced  with  much  elaborateness  of 
scenery,  dress,  music,  and  dancing,  in  honor  of  some 
high  event,  as  a  marriage,  a  birthday,  or  the  visit  of  a 
royal  personage. 

The  mask  was  in  its  composition  more  akin  to  the 
opera  than  to  the  play,  and  perhaps  still  more  like 
the  modern  spectacle  than  either.  It  was  less  a  re- 
presentation of  life  on  a  small  scale  than  an  allegori- 
cal picture.  In  Bacon's  Essays  there  is  one  entitled 
Of  Masques  and  Triumphs^  which  lets  one  into  some- 
thing of  the  secret  of  the  attraction  which  these 
pageants  had  for  men  of  learning  and  imagination. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE.  39 

When  one  considers  what  a  great  poem  Edmund 
Spenser  built  on  an  allegorical  basis  in  the  Faerie 
Queene^  it  is  not  difficult  to  see  how  heartily  nobles 
and  scholars  and  poets  and  artists  would  enter  into 
the  production  of  one  of  these  masks  where  poetic 
representations  could  make  use  of  supernatural  fig- 
ures, and  tableaux  could  be  devised  which  would  give 
opportunity  for  rich  dresses  and  beautiful  faces  to 
stand  for  some  poetic  conceit.  It  was  an  exuberant 
age,  and  the  wealth  of  the  new  discoveries  in  Grecian 
ajid  Roman  civilization  was  eagerly  made  use  of  by 
poets^  and  dramatists,  who  appealed  by  means  of  it  to 
the  eye  and  the  ear  as  well  as  to  the  mind. 

The  simple  meaning  of  the  word  "mask"  readily 
suggests  the  chief  element ;  disguise  played  a  very 
important  part,  and  when  we  are  reading  one  of  Ben 
Jonson's  masks  we  are  at  a  great  disadvantage,  for  it 
was  not  so  much  what  was  spoken  as  the  appearance 
of  the  figures  speaking  which  interested  the  original 
attendants  on  the  mask.  The  pale  page  of  the  book, 
with  the  most  elaborate  description,  is  a  poor  equiva- 
lent for  that  gorgeous  pageant,  swelling  with  pomp 
and  poetic  splendor,  where  poet  and  architect  blended 
their  labor  and  laid  under  contribution  the  ancient 
world  and  the  world  of  myth  for  the  building  of  their 
vast  pasteboard  palace  of  beauty.  We  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  brilliant  display  as  we  read,  and  we 
see  that  Jonson's  learning  and  poetic  fancy  made 
him  easily  chief  in  this  temporary  kingdom  of  art 
and  letters,  as  Shakespeare  was  chief  in  the  dramatic 
kingdom.  Fortunately  for  us,  Shakespeare  was  build- 
ing with  permanent  materials  of  art ;  unfortunately 
for  us  and  for  Jonson's  fame,  we  are  able  onl}'-  to 
drag  forth  from  the  debris  of  those  spectacles  which 


40  COMUS:   A  MASK. 

delighted  London,  the  court,  and  the  great  country* 
seats,  snatches  of  song  and  graceful  addresses,  inde- 
pendent of  the  setting  in  which  they  were  placed. 

By  and  by  the  mask  declined  in  popularity.  The 
decline  was  due  in  part  to  the  gradual  indifference  of 
the  titled  classes  to  what  may  be  termed  poetic 
splendor,  as  the  great  period  of  national  romance 
subsided,  in  part  to  the  rise  of  the  Puritan  party 
which  beginning  in  a  protest  against  ecclesiastical 
authority,  raised  its  head  against  the  state  which  was 
allied  with  the  church  and  broadened  its  scope  to 
take  in  all  forms  of  literature  and  art  which  seemed 
to  conflict  with  a  severe  ideal  of  life.  The  theatre, 
falling  under  the  ban  of  the  Puritans,  became  for 
awhile  a  reflection  of  a  loose  society,  and  as  the 
court  became  more  profligate  it  cared  less  for  the 
somewhat  fantastic  graces  of  the  mask. 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  therefore  the  sudden 
glow  of  the  dying  mask  under  the  touch  of  the  young 
poet  who  was  to  be  the  great  Puritan  scholar  and 
poet.  Comus  was  written  to  accompany  a  musical 
composition  by  Henry  Lawes,  and  was  performed  out- 
of-doors  by  amateurs  at  an  entertainment  given  by  the 
Earl  of  Bridgewater  to  celebrate  his  entrance  into 
his  office  as  Lord  President  of  Wales.  The  story 
runs  that  Lord  Brackley,  Mr.  Thomas  Egerton,  and 
their  sister  Lady  Alice  once  were  benighted  in  Hay- 
wood Forest  when  making  a  journey  to  some  rela- 
tives, and  that  Milton  based  his  mask  on  the  incident, 
but  it  is  quite  possible  that  the  poem,  whose  plot 
could  easily  have  been  invented,  gave  rise  to  the 
story.  Milton  never  gave  the  name  of  Comus  to  the 
piece,  but  called  it  simply  A  Masque  presented  at 
Ludlow  Castle, 


COMUS. 

THE  PERSONS. 

The  attendant  Spibit,  afterwards  in  the  habit  of  Tsrssis. 

CoMUs,  with  his  crew. 

The  Lady. 

First  Brother. 

Second  Brother. 

Sabeina,  the  Nymph. 

The  chief  persons  which  presented  were 

The  Lord  Brackly. 

Mr.  Thomas  Egerton,  his  brother. 

The  Lady  Alice  Egerton. 

THE   FIRST  SCENE   DISCOVERS  A   WILD  WOOD. 
The  attendant  Spiktt  descends  or  enters. 

Before  the  starry  threshold  of  Jove's  Court 
My  mansion  is,  where  those  immortal  shapes 
Of  bright  aerial  spirits  live  inspher'd 
In  regions  mild  of  calm  and  serene  air, 
5  Above  the  smoke  and  stir  of  this  dim  spot, 
Which  men  call  Earth,  and  with  low-thoughted  care 
Confin'd,  and  pester'd  in  this  pin-fold  here. 
Strive  to  keep  up  a  frail  and  feverish  being, 
Unmindfull  of  the  crown  that  virtue  gives, 

4.  Serene.  To  be  read  ser'ene.  According  to  the  usage  of 
Milton's  time  many  words  were  accented  upon  the  first  syllable 
which  are  now  accented  upon  the  second.  See,  for  example, 
enthroned  (line  11),  perplex't  (37),  cSmplete  (421),  congeaVd 
(449). 

7.  Although  pester'd  had  for  its  common  meaning  in  Mil- 
ton's time  the  sense  "  crowded,"  the  use  of  pinfold  suggests  the 
possibility  that  Milton  had  in  his  mind  the  original  force  of 
**  pester,"  as  applied  to  the  hobbling  of  animals. 


42  COM  us. 

10  After  this  mortal  change,  to  her  true  servant! 
Amongst  the  enthron'd  Gods  on  sainted  seatf 
Yet  some  there  be  that  by  due  steps  aspire 
To  lay  their  just  hands  on  that  golden  key 
That  opes  the  palace  o£  eternity ; 

15  To  such  my  errand  is,  and,  but  for  such, 
I  would  not  soil  these  pure  ambrosial  weeds 
With  tne  rank  vapours  of  this  sin-worn  mould. 
But  to  my  task.     Neptune,  besides  the  sway 
Of  every  salt  flood,  and  each  ebbing  stream, 

20  Took  in,  by  lot  'twixt  high  and  neather  Jove, 
Imperial  rule  of  all  the  Sea-girt  isles, 
That  like  to  rich  and  various  gems  inlay 
The  unadorned  boosom  of  the  Deep ; 
Which  he  to  grace  his  tributary  Gods 

25  By  course  commits  to  severall  government. 
And  gives  them  leave  to  wear  their  saphire  crowns 
And  wield  their  little  tridents :  but  this  Isle, 
The  greatest  and  the  best  of  all  the  main, 
He  quarters  to  his  blue-hair'd  deities ; 

30  And  all  this  tract  that  fronts  the  falling  sun 

16.  'Weeds.     See  V Allegro,  line  120. 

17.  Mould  =  earthly  material. 

20.  High  Jove  =  Jupiter.  Neather  =z  Nether  Jove  =  Picto. 
For  the  form  neather  notice  beneath. 

23.  Unadorned.  When  Milton  does  not  wish  to  sound  the 
eia.  ed  he  puts  an  elision  mark  (  '  ),  in  place  of  the  letter. 

24.  Grace.  We  all  recognize  the  sense  in  which  this  word 
Is  used  here,  when  we  employ  its  negative  form  and  speak  of 
disgracing,  i.  e.  degrading  an  officer. 

25.  Severall,  in  its  distributive  use. 

27.  Neptune  as  supreme  ocean  deity  wields  his  great  trident. 

29.  Blue-hair'd  deities  =  nereids.  Here  Milton  has  trans< 
lated  a  Greek  epithet. 

30.  The  occasion  of  the  mask  explains  what  this  tract,  peer, 
fuid  nation  are. 


COMUS.  43 

A  noble  Peer  of  mickle  trust  and  power 
Has  in  his  charge,  with  temper'd  awe  to  guide 
An  old  and  haughty  nation,  proud  in  arms: 
Where  his  fair  off-spring,  nurs't  in  princely  lore, 

35  Are  coming  to  attend  their  father's  state, 
And  new-intrusted  scepter.     But  their  way 
Lies  through  the  perplex't  paths  of  this  drear  wood, 
The  nodding  horror  of  whose  shady  brows 
Threats  the  forlorn  and  wandring  passinger. 

40  And  here  their  tender  age  might  suffer  peril, 
But  that  by  quick  command  from  Soveran  Jove 
I  was  dispatcht  for  their  defence,  and  guard; 
And  listen  why,  for  I  will  tell  you  now 
What  never  yet  was  heard  in  tale  or  song, 

45  From  old  or  modern  bard,  in  hall  or  bowr. 

Bacchus,  that  first  from  out  the  purple  grape 
Crush't  the  sweet  poison  of  mis-used  wine. 
After  the  Tuscan  mariners  transform'd. 
Coasting  the  Tyrrhene  shore,  as  the  winds  listed, 

50  On  Circe's  island  fell:  (who  knows  not  Circe, 
The  daughter  of  the  Sun?  whose  charmed  cup 
Whoever  tasted,  lost  his  upright  shape, 

35.  State.  They  had  come  to  attend  the  ceremony  of  their 
father's  installation. 

37.   See  note  on  line  4. 

39.  Passinger.  So  Milton,  and  the  form  carries  justifica- 
tion. 

48.  Legend  relates  that  Bacchus  transformed  into  dolphins  cer- 
tain Tuscan  or  Tyrrhene  pirates  who  had  kidnapped  him. 

52.  The  Comus  of  Milton  is  really  as  here  given  a  modern 
addition  to  ancient  mythology.  In  Classic  Greek,  Comus  was 
first  the  word  for  merry-making  and  then  for  a  band  of  revel- 
ers ;  the  word  Comedy  is  closely  connected  with  it.  In  later 
mythology,  Comus  was  the  divinity  of  merry-making,  but  it  re- 
mained for  Milton  to  add  his  parentage,  and  by  his  poetic  power 
to  give  him  a  life  such  as  antiquity  had  not  given  him. 


4M  COMUS. 

And  downward  fell  into  a  groveling  swine) 
This  Nympli  that  gaz'd  upon  his  cliistring  locks, 

65  With  ivy  berries  wreath'd,  and  his  blithe  youth, 
Had  by  him,  ere  he  parted  thence,  a  son 
Much  like  his  father,  but  his  mother  more. 
Whom  therefore  she  brought  up,  and  Comus  nam'd: 
Who,  ripe  and  frolic  of  his  full  grown  age, 

60  Roving  the  Celtic  and  Iberian  fields, 
At  last  betakes  him  to  this  ominous  wood. 
And  in  thick  shelter  of  black  shades  imbowr'd 
Excels  his  mother  at  her  mighty  art, 
Offring  to  every  weary  travailer 

65  His  orient  liquor  in  a  crystal  glass. 
To  quench  the  drouth  of  Phoebus ;  which  as  they  taste 
(For  most  do  taste  through  fond  intemperate  thirst) 
Soon  as  the  potion  works,  their  human  count'nance, 
Th'  express  resemblance  of  the  gods,  is  chang'd 

70  Into  some  brutish  form  of  wolf,  or  bear. 
Or  ounce,  or  tiger,  hog,  or  bearded  goat. 
All  other  parts  remaining  as  they  were ; 
And  they,  so  perfect  is  their  misery. 
Not  once  perceive  their  foul  disfigurement, 

?6  But  boast  themselves  more  comely  then  before, 
And  all  their  friends  and  native  home  forget. 
To  roll  with  pleasure  in  a  sensual  sty. 
Ther'fore,  when  any  favour'd  of  high  Jove 
Chances  to  pass  through  this  adventrous  glade, 

80  Swift  as  the  sparkle  of  a  glancing  star 
I  shoot  from  Heav'n,  to  give  him  safe  convoy 
As  now  I  do :  but  first  I  must  put  off 

55.  See  V  Allegro,  line  16. 

64.  The  form  travailer  for  traveller  is  common  with  Milton 
and  indicates  the  derivation  of  the  word,  for  the  sense  of  toil 
and  labor  underlies  it. 


coMUS.  46 

These  my  sky  robes,  spun  out  of  Iris'  woof, 
And  take  the  weeds  and  likenes  of  a  swain 

35  That  to  the  service  of  this  house  belongs, 
Who,  with  his  soft  pipe  and  smooth-dittied  song, 
Well  knows  to  still  the  wilde  winds  when  they  roar, 
And  hush  the  waving  woods  ;  nor  of  lesse  faith, 
And  in  this  office  of  his  mountain  watch, 

90  Likeliest,  and  nearest  to  the  present  aid 
Of  this  occasion.  But  I  hear  the  tread 
Of  hatefull  steps;  I  must  be  viewles  now. 

CoMUS  enters  with  a  charming^od  in  one  hand,  his  glass  in  the  othery 
with  him  a  rout  of  monsters,  headed  like  sundry  sorts  of  wild  Beasts, 
but  otherwise  like  men  and  women,  their  apparel  glistring  ;  they  come 
in  making  a  riotous  and  unruly  noise,  with  torches  in  their  hands. 

Comus.  The  Star  that  bids  the  Shepherd  fold 

Now  the  top  of  Heav'n  doth  hold, 
\n5  And  the  gilded  car  of  day 

His  glowing  axle  doth  allay 

In  the  steep  Atlantic  stream ; 

And  the  slope  sun  his  upward  beam 

Shoots  against  the  dusky  pole, 
100  Pacing  toward  the  other  gole 

Of  his  chamber  in  the  east. 

Meanwhile  welcome  Joy,  and  Feast, 

84.  The  part  of  the  Attendant  Spirit  who  assumes  the  dress 
and  appearance  of  a  servant  of  the  house  was  taken  by  Henry 
Lawes,  the  musician,  who  furnished  the  music  for  the  mask. 

97.  Milton  makes  use  of  the  ancient  notion  which  regarded 
the  earth  as  flat,  and  encircled  by  a  stream  flowing  from  south 
to  north  along  the  western  coast  of  Europe,  thence  east,  and  so 
from  north  to  south  on  the  east  coast  of  Asia. 

98.  Slope,  i.  e.  setting. 

100.  Gole  =  goal,  and  is  nearer  the  derivative  spelling,  foir 
the  word  is  another  form  for  pole,  as  marking  the  end  of  a  race* 


46  COMUS. 

Midnight  Shout,  and  Revelry, 

Tipsy  Dance,  and  Jollity. 
105  Braid  your  locks  with  rosy  twine. 

Dropping  odours,  dropping  wine. 

Rigor  now  is  gone  to  bed. 

And  Advice  with  scrupulous  head, 

Strict  Age,  and  soure  Severity, 
uo  With  their  grave  saws  in  slumber  lie. 

We  that  are  of  purer  fire 

Imitate  the  starry  quire. 

Who  in  their  nightly  watchfull  sphears 

Lead  in  swift  round  the  months  and  years. 
115  The  sounds  and  seas,  with  all  their  finny  drove, 

Now  to  the  moon  in  wavering  morrice  move, 

And  on  the  tawny  sands  and  shelves 

Trip  the  pert  fairies  and  the  dapper  elves ; 

By  dimpled  brook,  and  fountain  brim, 
120  The  wood-nymphs,  deckt  with  daisies  trim. 

Their  merry  wakes  and  pastimes  keep ; 

What  hath  night  to  do  with  sleep  ? 

Night  had  better  sweets  to  prove : 

Venus  now  wakes,  and  wak'ns  Love. 
125  Come,  let  us  our  rights  begin, 

'T  is  onely  day-light  that  makes  sin. 

Which  these  dun  shades  will  ne'er  report. 

Hail,  Goddesse  of  Nocturnal  sport, 

Dark-veil'd  Cotytto,  t'  whom  the  secret  flame 

117.  Shelves.     We  are  wont  to  speak  of  a  shelving  beach. 
125.  Rights.     So  Milton,  and  it  is  possible  that  rites  is  not  an 
exact  equivalent. 

128.  Goddesse.  Observe  that  in  other  places  Milton  has 
not  used  the  final  se. 

129.  Cotytto.  A  more  familiar  form  was  Cotys.  She  was 
a  Tliracian  divinity,  and  the  orgies  in  her  honor  were  celebrated 
on  hill  tops. 


COMUS,  47 

UK  Of  mid-night  torches  burns ;  mysterious  dame, 

That  ne'er  avt  call'd  but  when  the  dragon  womb 

Of  Stygian  darknes  spets  her  thickest  gloom, 

And  makes  one  blot  of  all  the  air, 

Stay  thy  clotjc^y  ebon  chair, 
135  Wher'in  thou  ridst  with  Hecat',  and  befriend 

Us  thy  vow'd  priests,  till  utmost  end 

Of  all  thy  dues  be  done,  and  none  left  out 

Ere  the  babbling  eastern  scout, 

The  nice  morn  on  th'  Indian  steep, 
140  From  her  cabin 'd  loop  hole  peep. 

And  to  tho  tell-tale  sun  descry 

Our  conceal'd  solemnity. 

Come,  knit  hands,  and  beat  the  ground, 

In  a  light  fantastic  round. 

THE  MEASURE. 

145  Break  off,  break  off,  I  feel  the  different  pace 
Of  some  chaste  footing  near  about  this  ground. 
Run  to  your  shrouds,  within  these  brakes  and  trees  ^, 
Our  number  may  affright :  Some  Virgin  sure 
(For  so  I  can  distinguish  by  mine  art) 

150  Benighted  in  these  woods.     Now  to  my  charms, 
And  to  my  wily  trains  ;  I  shall  ere  long 
Be  well  stock't  with  as  fair  a  herd  as  graz'd 
About  my  mother  Circe.     Thus  I  hurl 
My  dazzling  spells  into  the  spungy  air, 

155  Of  power  to  cheat  the  eye  with  blear  illusion. 
And  give  it  false  presentments,  lest  the  place 
And  my  quaint  habits  breed  astonishment. 
And  put  the  damsel  to  suspicious  flight ; 

144.  See  U  Allegro,  line  34. 

147.  Shrouds.     See  Ezekiel  xxxi.  3,  aud  a  line  in  Loweira 
Bigloia  Papers^  Second  Series,  No.  vi. 


4B  COMUS. 

Which  must  not  be,  for  that's  against  my  courses 
160 1  under  fair  pretence  of  friendly  ends, 
And  well-plac't  words  of  glozing  courtesy 
Baited  with  reasons  not  unplausible, 
Wind  me  into  the  easy-hearted  man, 
And  hug  him  into  snares.     When  once  her  eye 
165  Hath  met  the  virtue  of  this  magic  dust, 
I  shall  appear  some  harmles  villager. 
Whom  thrift  keeps  up  about  his  country  gear. 
But  here  she  comes ;  I  fairly  step  aside 
And  hearken,  if  I  may  her  busines  hcfe. 

The  Lady  enters. 

170     Lady,  This  way  the  noise  was,  if  mine  ear  be 
true, 
My  best  guide  now  ;  me  thought  it  was  the  sound 
Of  riot  and  ill-manag'd  merriment, 
Such  as  the  jocond  flute  or  gamesome  pipe 
Stirs  up  among  the  loose  unletter'd  hinds, 

175  When  for  their  teeming  flocks  and  granges  full 
In  wanton  dance  they  praise  the  bounteous  Pan- 
And  thank  the  gods  amiss.     I  should  be  loath 
To  meet  the  rudenesse  and  swill'd  insolence 
Of  such  late  wassailers  ;  yet  O  where  else 

380  Shall  I  inform  my  unacquainted  feet 
In  the  blind  mazes  of  this  tangi'd  wood  ? 

161.  Glozing.     Milton  uses  the  word  in  Paradise  Lost,  ixc  o49j; 

"  So  gloz'd  the  tempter,  and  his  proem  tun'd." 
Here  he  anticipates  the  serpentine  notion  of  temptation. 

167.  Keeps  up.     It  must  be  remembered  thai;  it  i»  '^t©  in 
tbe  night.     Gear  =  business. 

168.  Fairly  =  softly. 

180.  In  Samson  Agonistes,  line  335,  Milton  writes  :— ' 
*'  Hither  hath  informed 
Your  younger  feet." 


coMUS.  49 

My  Brothers,  when  they  saw  me  wearied  out 
With  this  long  way,  resolving  here  to  lodge 
Under  the  spreading  favour  of  these  pines, 

185  Stept,  as  they  said,  to  the  next  thicket  side 
To  bring  me  berries,  or  such  cooling  fruit 
As  the  kind  hospitable  woods  provide. 
They  left  me  then,  when  the  gray-hooded  Ev'n, 
Like  a  sad  votarist  in  palmer's  weed, 

(90  Rose  from  the  hindmost  wheels  of  Phoebus'  wain. 
But  where  they  are,  and  why  they  came  not  back, 
Is  now  the  labour  of  my  thoughts  :  't  is  likeliest 
They  had  ingag'd  their  wandring  steps  too  far ; 
And  envious  darknes,  ere  they  could  return, 

<95  Had  stole  them  from  me  ;  else,  O. thievish  Night, 
Why  shouldst  thou,  but  for  some  felonious  end. 
In  thy  dark  lantern  thus  close  up  the  stars. 
That  nature  hung  in  heav'n,  and  fiU'd  their  lamps 
With  everlasting  oil,  to  give  due  light 

200  To  the  misled  and  lonely  travailer  ? 
This  is  the  place,  as  well  as  I  may  guess, 
Whence  ev'n  now  the  tumult  of  loud  mirth 
Was  rife,  and  perfe't  in  my  list'ning  ear ; 
Yet  nought  but  single  darknes  do  I  find. 

193.  Ingag'd.  A  somewhat  obscure  use  of  the  word.  But 
Milton  in  Paradise  Lost,  ix.  961-963,  says,  — 

"  O  glorious  trial  of  exceeding  love, 
Illustrious  evidence,  example  high, 
Engaging  me  to  emulate ; " 

and  the  notion,  of  urging  or  inviting,  here  expressed,  seems  most 
applicable  to  this  line.  By  a  not  uncommon  inversion,  the  lady 
says  :  "  Their  wandering  steps  had  been  drawn  on  too  far,  and 
envious  Darkness,  thievish  Night  had  stolen  my  brothers  from 
me." 

203.  In  prose,  the  lady  would  have  said  that  she  heard  this 
tumult  perfectly. 

201.  Single  darkness  =  darkness  alone. 


50  COMUS. 

JOS  What  miglit  this  be  ?     A  thousand  fantasies 
Begin  to  throng  into  my  memory 
Of  calling  shapes,  and  beck'ning  shadows  dire, 
And  airy  tongues,  that  syllable  men's  names 
On  sands,  and  shores,  and  desert  wildernesses. 

no  These  thoughts  may  startle  well,  but  not  astound 
The  virtuous  mind,  that  ever  walks  attended 
By  a  strongsiding  champion,  Conscience.  — 

0  welcome,  pure-ey'd  Faith,  white-handed  Hope, 
Thou  hovering  Angel,  girt  with  golden  wings, 

215  And  thou,  unblemish't  form  of  Chastity ! 

1  see  ye  visibly,  and  now  believe 

That  he,  the  Supreme  Good,  t'  whom  all  things  ill 
Are  but  as  slavish  officers  of  vengeance, 
Would  send  a  glistring  guardian,  if  need  were, 

220  To  keep  my  life  and  honour  unassail'd. 
Was  I  deceiv'd,  or  did  a  sable  cloud  " 
Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night  ? 
I  did  not  err,  there  does  a  sable  cloud 
Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night, 

825  And  casts  a  gleam  over  this  tufted  grove : 
I  cannot  hallow  to  my  Brothers,  but 
Such  noise  as  I  can  make  to  be  heard  farthest 
I'll  venter,  for  my  new  enliv'nd  spirits 
Prompt  me ;  and  they  perhaps  are  not  far  off. 

214.  The  third  form  may  easily  be  inferred  from  the  two 
members  of  the  triad  in  the  previous  line. 

217.  Again  Milton's  perfectly  tuned  ear  must  be  followed  in 
accenting  Supreme. 

228.  Venter.  This  pronunciation  of  venture  still  lingers  in 
New  England. 


COMUS,  51 

SONG. 

«o  8v)eet  Echon  sweetest  nymph^  that  liv'st  unseen 

Within  thy  airy  shell 

By  slow  Meander  s  margent  green^ 

And  in  the  violet-imhroider^d  vale 

Where  the  love-lorn  nightingale 

235  Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mourneth  well : 

Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  pair 

That  lihest  thy  Narcissus  are  f 

O  if  thou  have 

Hid  them,  in  someflowry  cave, 

w  Tell  me  but  where, 

Sweet  Queen  of  Parly,  Daughter  of  the  Sphearf 

So  mayst  thou  he  translated  to  the  skies, 

And  give  resounding  grace  to  aH  heav'iibS  harmo* 

nies. 

Enter  Comus. 

Comus.  Can  any  mortal  mixture  of  earth's  mould 
245  Breathe  such  divine  inchanting  ravishment  ? 
Sure  something  holy  lodges  in  that  breast, 
And  with  these  raptures  moves  the  vocal  air 
To  testify  his  hidd'n  residence ; 
How  sweetly  did  they  float  upon  the  wings 
250  Of  silence,  through  the  empty-vaulted  night, 
At  every  fall  smoothing  the  Raven  downe 
Of  darknes  till  it  smil'd  :  I  have  oft  heard 
My  mother  Circe  with  the  Sirens  three, 
Amidst  the  flowry-kirtl'd  Naiades, 

231.  Airy  shell.     As  the  sea-nymplis  were  .^ancied  housed  ha 
Bea-shells,  so  might  Echo  be  given  an  airy  shell. 
241.  Sphear  =r  atmosphere. 
251.  Fall. 

"  That  strain  again !  It  had  a  dying  fall." 

Shakespeare,  Twelfth  Night,  Act  I.  sc.  L 


62  COMUS. 

255  Culling  their  potent  hearbs,  and  balef  uU  drugs, 
Who,  as  they  sung,  would  take  the  prison'd  soul, 
And  lap  it  in  Elysium  ;   Scylla  wept. 
And  chid  lier  barking  waves  into  attention, 
And  fell  Charybdis  murmur 'd  soft  applause : 
260  Yet  they  in  pleasing  slumber  lull'd  the  sense, 
And  in  sweet  madnes  rob'd  it  of  it  self  ; 
But  such  a  sacred  and  home-felt  delight. 
Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss, 
I  never  heard  till  now.     I  '11  speak  to  her, 
265  And  she  shall  be  my  queen.  —  Hail,  foreign  won- 
der! 
Whom  certain  these  rough  shades  did  never  breed 
Unlesse  the  Goddes  that  in  rural  shrine 
Dwell' st  here  with  Pan,  or  Silvan,  by  blest  song 
Forbidding  every  bleak  unkindly  fog 
270  To  touch  the  prosperous  growth  of  this  tall  wood. 
Lady.  Nay  gentle  Shepherd,  ill  is  lost  that  praise 
That  is  addrest  to  unattending  ears ; 
Not  any  boast  of  skill,  but  extreme  shift 
How  to  regain  my  sever'd  company, 
175  Compell'd  me  to  awake  the  courteous  Echo 
To  give  me  answer  from  her  mossy  couch. 

Comus,  What  chance,  good  Lady,  hath    bereft 

you  thus  ? 
Lady,  Dim  darknes,  and  this  leavy  labyrinth. 
Comus.  Could  that  divide  you  from  near-usher- 
ing guides  ? 

258.  In  the  ancient  fable,  Scylla  was  represented  as  an  en- 
chanted maiden,  turned  into  a  monster,  and  surrounded  by  hiss- 
ing serpents  and  barking  dogs,  a  natural  personification  of  waves 
dashing  against  rocks. 

277.  In  this  dialogue  of  single  lines,  Milton  was  following  the 
Greek  tragedians. 


COMUS.  53 

280     Lady,  They  left  me  weary  on  a  grassy  turf. 
Comus.  By  falsehood,  or  discourtesy,  or  why? 
Lady,  To  seek  i'  th'  valley  some  cool  friendlj* 

Spring. 
Coinus.  And  left  your  fair  side  all  unguarded. 

Lady  ? 
Lady.  They  were  but  twain,  and  purpos'd  quick 
return. 
285      Comus.  Perhaps    fore-stalling   night    prevented 
them. 
Lady.  How  easy  my  misfortune  is  to  hit ! 
Comus.  Imports   their   loss,   beside  the  present 

need? 
Lady.  No   less   then   if   I   should  my  brothers 

lose. 
Comus.  Were  they  of  manly  prime,  or  youthful 
bloom  ? 
290      Jjady.  As  smooth  as  Hebe's  their  unrazor'd  lips. 
Comus.  Two  such  I  saw,  what  time  the  labour'd 
Ox 
In  his  loose  traces  from  the  furrow  came, 
And  the  swink't  hedger  at  his  supper  sate  ; 
I  saw  them  under  a  green  mantling  vine 
195  That  crawls  along  the  side  of  yon  small  hill. 
Plucking  ripe  clusters  from  the  tender  shoots. 
Their  port  was  more  than  human,  as  they  stood  ; 
I  took  it  for  a  faery  vision 
Of  some  gay  creatures  of  the  element, 
300  That  in  the  colours  of  the  rainbow  live 

And  play  i'  th'  plighted  clouds.     I  was  awe-strook, 
And  as  I  past,  I  worshipt ;  if  those  you  seek, 

281.  Comus  instinctively  thinks  evil. 

301,  Plighted  =  folded.     In  one  of  his  prose  writings  Milton 
says  *,   "  She  wore  a  plighted  garment  of  divers  colours." 


54  COMUS. 

It  were  a  journey  like  the  path  to  heav'n 
To  help  you  find  them. 

Lady,  Gentle  Villager, 

»5  What  readiest  way  would  bring  me  to  that  place  ? 
Comus.  Due   west   it   rises   from   this   shrubby 

point. 
Lady,  To  find  that  out,  good  Shepherd,  I  sup 
pose, 
In  such  a  scant  allowance  of  star-light, 
Would  overtask  the  best  land-pilot's,  art, 
ao  Without  the  sure  guess  of  well-ppactiz'd  feet. 

Comus.  I  know  each  lane,  and  every  alley  greea^ 
Dingle,  or  bushy  dell  of  this  wild  Wood, 
And  every  bosky  bourn  from  side  to  side, 
My  daily  walks  and  ancient  neighbourhood, 
J15  And  if  your  stray-attendants  be  yet  lodg'd 
Or  shrcud  within  these  limits,  I  shall  know 
Ere  morrow  wake,  or  the  low  roosted  lark 
From  her  thach't  pallet  rouse  ;  if  otherwise 
I  can  conduct  you,  Lady,  to  a  low 
Ko  But  loyal  cottage,  where  you  may  be  safe 
Till  further  quest. 

Lady,  Shepherd,  I  take  thy  word. 

And  trust  thy  honest  offer'd  courtesy. 
Which  oft  is  sooner  found  in  lowly  sheds 
With  smoaky  rafters,  then  in  tapstry  halls 
fi5  And  courts  of  princes,  where  it  first  was  nam'd, 
And  yet  is  most  pretended :  in  a  place 
Less  warranted  than  this,  or  less  secure, 
I  cannot  be,  that  I  should  fear  to  change  it. 

313.  Bourn.  The  Scottish  form  "  burn  "  is  still  in  common 
use,  and  in  geographical  names  it  is  preserved,  thougli  its  origi- 
nal meaning  of  brook  is  lost,  e.  g.  Bannockburn.  A  brook  was 
often  a  bomidary,  so  this  secondary  meaning  remains. 


COMUS,  55 

Eye  me,  blest  Providence,  and  square  my  triall 
ssoTo  my   proportioned    strength.        Shepherd,   lead 
on.  — 

JS'nfer  The  Two  Brothers. 

Elder   Brother,  Unmuffle,   ye   faint   stars,   and 
thou  fair  moon. 
That  wontst  to  love  the  travailer's  benizon, 
Stoop  thy  pale  visage  through  an  amber  cloud, 
And  disinherit  Chaos,  that  reigns  here 

J35  In  double  night  of  darknes  and  of  shades ; 
Or  if  your  influence  be  quite  damm'd  up 
With  black  usurping  mists,  some  gentle  taper, 
Though  a  rush  candle,  from  the  wicker  hole 
Of  some  clay  habitation,  visit  us 

840  With  thy  long  levell'd  rule  of  streaming  light ;  * 
And  thou  shalt  be  our  star  of  Arcady, 
Or  Tyrian  Cynosure. 

Second  Brother,        Or,  if  our  eyes 
Be  barr'd  that  happines,  might  we  but  hear 
The  folded  flocks  pen'd  in  their  watled  ootes, 

M5  Or  sound  of  pastoral  reed  with  oaten  stops, 
Or  whistle  from  the  lodge,  or  village  cock 
Count  the  night  watches  to  his  feathery  dames, 
'T  would  be  some  solace  yet,  some  little  cheering^ 
In  this  close  dungeon  of  innumerous  boughs. 

sooBut  O  that  haples  virgin,  our  lost  Sister! 

Where  may  she  wander  now,  whither  betake  her 
From  the  chill  dew,  amongst  rude  burrs  and  this-. 

ties  ? 
Perhaps  some  cold  bank  is  her  bolster  now. 
Or  'gainst  the  rugged  bark  of  some  broad  elm 

342.  The  Cynosure  is  the  constellation  containing  the  polaf 
star.     See  U Allegro,  line  80. 


66  COMUS. 

355  Leans  her  unpillow'd  head  fraught  with  sad  fears. 
What  if  in  wild  amazement,  and  affright, 
Or,  while  we  speak,  within  the  direfuU  grasp 
Of  savage  hunger,  or  of  savage  heat  ? 

JElder  Brother.     Peace,  brother,  be   not   over- 
exquisite 

360  To  cast  the  fashion  of  uncertain  evils ; 

For  grant  they  be  so,  while  they  rest  unlimown, 
What  need  a  man  forestall  his  date  of  grief, 
And  run  to  meet  what  he  would  most  avoid  ? 
Or,  if  they  be  but  false  alarms  of  fear, 

865  How  bitter  is  such  self-delusion ! 
I  do  not  tlxlnk  my  sister  so  to  seek, 
Or  so  unprincipl'd  in  virtue's  book. 
And  the  sweet  peace  that  goodnes  bosoms  ever, 
As  that  the  single  want  of  light  and  noise 

370  (Not  being  in  danger,  as  I  trust  she  is  not) 

Could  stir  the  constant  mood  of  her  calm  thoughts^ 

And  put  them  into  mis-becoming  plight. 

Virtue  could  see  to  do  what  virtue  would 

By  her  own  radiant  light,  though  Sun  and  Moon 

876  Were  in  the  flat  sea  sunk.     And  Wisdom's  self 
Oft  seeks  to  sweet  retired  solitude, 
Where  with  her  best  nurse  Contemplation, 
She  plumes  her  feathers,  and  lets  grow  her  wings. 
That  in  the  various  bustle  of  resort 

380  Were  all  to-ruffl'd,  and  sometimes  impair'd. 

360.  A  fortune  teller  would  cast  a  figure  to  determine  future 
events.     We  still  say  fore-east,  which  is  the  significance  here. 

367.  Unprincipled ;  that  is,  so  untaught  in  the  elementary 
studies. 

376.  Seeks  to.     See  Deuteronomy  xii.  5  ;  1  Kings  xi.  24. 

380.  To-ruffl'd.  The  prefix  "  to  "  is  an  old  intensive  form. 
The  prefix  "  be  "  in  the  modern  word  "  beruffled  "  has  evidently 
t:he  same  force. 


VOMUS.  67 

He  that  has  light  within  his  own  clear  breast, 

May  sit  i'  th'  center,  and  enjoy  bright  day : 

But  he  that  hides  a  dark  soul,  and  foul  thoughts, 

Benighted  walks  under  the  mid-day  sun ; 

Himself  is  his  own  dungeon. 
185      Second  Brother,  'T  is  most  true 

That  musing  meditation  most  affects 

The  pensive  secrecy  of  desert  cell, 

Far  from  the  cheerfull  haunt  of  men,  and  herds, 

And  sits  as  safe  as  in  a  senat  house ; 
390  For.  who  would  rob  a  hermit  of  his  weeds, 

His  few  books,  or  his  beads,  or  maple  dish, 

Or  do  his  gray  hairs  any  violence  ? 

But  beauty,  like  the  fair  Hesperian  tree 

Laden  with  blooming  gold,  had  need  the  guard 
895  Of  dragon  watch  with  uninchanted  eye, 

To  save  her  blossoms,  and  defend  her  fruit 

From  the  rash  hand  of  bold  Incontinence. 

You  may  as  well  spread  out  the  unsunn'd  heaps 

Of  miser's  treasure  by  an  out- law's  den,. 
400  And  tell  me  it  is  safe,  as  bid  me  hope 

Danger  will  wink  on  opportunity. 

And  let  a  single  helpless  maiden  pass 

Uninjur'd  in  this  wild  surrounding  waste. 

Of  night,  or  loneliness,  it  recks  me  not ; 
405 1  fear  the  dread  events  that  dog  .hem  both, 

Lest  some  ill  greeting  touch  attempt  the  person 

Of  our  unowned  sister. 

Elder  Brother.  I  do  not,  brother, 

Inferr  as  if  I  thought  my  sister's  state 

Secure  without  all  doubt,  or  controversy ; 
<»  Yet  where  an  equall  poise  of  hope  and  fear 

382.  Th'  center.  The  centre  of  the  earth,  which  was,  ac- 
cording to  the  Ptolemaic  system  of  astronomy,  fhe  centre  of  the 
universe,  and  the  abode  of  darkness. 


58  COMUS. 

Does  arbitrate  th'  event,  my  nature  is 
That  I  eneline  to  hope,  rather  than  fear, 
And  gladly  banish  squint  suspicion. 
My  sister  is  not  so  defenceless  left 

115  As  you  imagine  ;  she  has  a  hidden  strength 
Which  you  remember  not. 

Second  Brother,  What  hidden  strength. 

Unless  the  strength  of  Heav'n,  if  you  mean  that  ? 
Elder  Brother,     I  mean  that  too,  but  yet  a  hid« 
den  strength 
Which,  if  Heav'n  gave  it,  may  be  term'd  her  own  ? 

CO  'T  is  chastity,  my  brother,  chastity : 

She  that  has  that  is  clad  in  complete  steel. 
And  like  a  quiver 'd  Nymph  with  arrows  keen 
May  trace  huge  forests,  and  unharbour'd  heaths, 
Infamous  hills,  and  sandy  perilous  wilds, 

#25  Where,  through  the  sacred  rays  of  chastity, 
No  savage  fierce,  bandite,  or  mountaineer 
Will  dare  to  soil  her  virgin  purity  : 
Yea,  there  where  very  desolation  dwells. 
By  grots,  and  caverns  shag'd  with  horrid  shades, 

430  She  may  pass  on  with  unblench't  majesty. 
Be  it  not  done  in  pride,  or  in  presumption. 
Some  say  no  evil  thing  that  walks  by  night, 
In  fog,  or  fire,  by  lake,  or  moorish  fen, 

412.  Eneline.     The  varying  use  of  e  and  i  in  words  of  this 
compound  appears  to  be  a  matter  of  euphony. 

413.  Squint  =  squint-eyed. 

422.  Diana,  the  chaste  goddess,  was  represented  also  as  a 
huntress. 

423.  Trace.     We  refer  to  this  use  when  we  speak  of  retracing 
our  way. 

430.  Unblench't  =  undaunted.     One  is  blenched  or  blanched 
(whitened)  with  fear. 
432.  See  for  this  line  Hamlet^  Act  I.  sc.  i.  line  161. 


COMUS.  59 

Blue  meager  hag,  or  stubborn  unlaid  ghost, 

135  That  breaks  his  magic  chains  at  curfeu  time, 
No  goblin,  or  swart  faery  of  the  mine, 
Hath  hurtfuU  power  o'er  true  virginitVo 
Do  ye  believe  me  yet,  or  shall  I  call 
Antiquity  from  the  old  schools  of  Greece 

440  To  testify  the  arms  of  chastity  ? 

Hence  had  the  huntress  Dian  her  dread  bow, 
Fair  silver-shafted  queen  for  ever  chaste, 
Wherwith  she  tam'd  the  brinded  lioness 
And  spotted  mountain  pard,  but  set  at  nought 

^  The  frivolous  bolt  of  Cupid  ;  gods  and  men 

Fear'd  her  stern  frown,  and  she  was  queen  o'  th' 

woods. 
What  was  that  snaky-headed  Gorgon  shield. 
That  wise  Minerva  wore,  unconquer'd  virgin, 
Wherwith  she  freez'd  her  foes  to  congeal'd  stone, 

450  But  rigid  looks  of  chaste  austerity. 

And  noble  grace  that  dash't  brute  violence 
With  sudden  adoration  and  blank  awe? 
So  dear  to  heav'n  is  saintly  chastity, 
That  when  a  soul  is  found  sincerely  so, 

455  A  thousand  liveried  angels  lacky  her, 
Driving  far  off  each  thing  of  sin  and  guilt, 
And  in  clear  dream,  and  solemn  vision, 
Tell  her  of  things  that  no  gross  ear  can  hear; 
Till  oft  converse  with  heav'nly  habitants 

460  Begin  to  cast  a  beam  on  th'  outward  shape, 
The  unpolluted  temple  of  the  mind, 

457.  Vision.  A  word  of  three  syllables. 

460.  Mr.  Sprague  calls  attention  to  another  poetic  expressioJi 
of  Milton's  philosophy,  explanatory  of  this,  in  Paradise  LosU  v* 
4^68-505.  Begin  here  is  the  subjunctive  form.  Beam  is  a 
beam  of  light,  as  used  now  in  the  word  sunbeam. 


60  COMUS. 

And  turns  it  by  degrees  to  the  soul's  essence,    ■ 
Till  all  be  made  immortal :  but  when  lust 
By  unchaste  looks,  loose  gestures,  and  foul  talk^ 
165  But  most  by  lewd  and  lavish  act  of  sin, 
Lets  in  defilement  to  the  inward  parts, 
The  soul  grows  clotted  by  contagion, 
Imbodies,  and  im brutes,  till  she  quite  lose 
The  divine  property  of  her  first  being. 
m  Such  are  those  thick  and  gloomy  shadows  damp 
Oft  seen  in  charnell  vaults  and  sepulchers, 
Lingei'ing  and  sitting  by  a  new  made  grave, 
As  loath  to  leave  the  body  that  it  lov'd. 
And  link't  it  self  by  carnal  sensualty 
475  To  a  degenerate  and  degraded  state. 

Second  Brother.     How  charming  is  divine  phi- 
losophy ! 
Not  harsh,  and  crabbed,  as  dull  fools  suppose. 
But  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute, 
And  a  perpetual  feast  of  nectar'd  sweets, 
Where  no  crude  surfeit  reigns. 
«80      Elder  Brother.  List,  list !  I  hear 

Some  far  off  hallow  break  the  silent  air. 

Second  Brother.      Me   thought   so   too ;    what 

should  it  be  ? 
Elder  Brother.         For  certain 
Either  some  one  like  us  night-founder'd  here. 
Or  else  some  neighbour  wood-man,  or,  at  worst, 
485  Some  roving  robber  calling  to  his  fellows. 

Second  Brother.     Heav'n  keep  my  Sister.    Agen, 
agen,  and  near  ! 
Best  draw,  and  stand  upon  our  guard. 

Elder  Brother.  I  '11  hallow. 

If  he  be  friendly,  he  comes  well ;  if  not. 
Defence  is  a  good  cause,  and  Heav'n  be  for  us. 


COMUS.  61 

Enter  the  attendant  Spirit,  habited  like  a  Shepherd. 

490  That  hallow  I  should  know,  what  are  you  ?    Speak  •, 
Come  not  too  near,  you  fall  on  iron  stakes  else. 
Spirit.     What   voice  is  that  ?   my  young  Lord  ? 

speak  agen. 
Second   Brother.      O  brother,  't  is  my  father's 

Shepherd,  sure. 
Elder  Brother.     Thyrsis  ?    Whose  artful  strains 
have  oft  delay'd 
495  The  huddling  brook  to  hear  his  madrigal. 
And  sweeten'd  every  muskrose  of  the  dale. 
How  cam'st  thou  here,  good  swain  ?  hath  any  ram 
Slipt  from  the  fold,  or  young  kid  lost  his  dam. 
Or  straggling  wether  the  pen't  flock  forsook? 
500  How  could  st  thou  find  this  dark  sequester 'd  nook  ? 
Spirit.     O  my  lov'd  master's  heir,  and  his  next 

joy. 

I  came  not  here  on  such  a  trivial  toy 
As  a  stray'd  ewe,  or  to  pursue  the  stealth 
Of  pilfering  wolf  ;  not  all  the  fleecy  wealth 
W5  That  doth  enrich  these  downs,  is  worth  a  thought 
To  this  my  errand,  and  the  care  it  brought. 
But,  O  my  virgin  Lady,  where  is  she  ? 
How  chance  she  is  not  in  your  company  ? 

Elder  Brother.     To  tell  thee   sadly.  Shepherd, 
without  blame, 
510  Or  our  neglect,  we  lost  her  as  we  came. 

Spirit.     Ay  me  unhappy !  then  my  fears  are  true. 
Elder    Brother.      What    fears,   good    Thyrsis? 

Prithee  briefly  shew. 
Spirit.     I  '11  tell  ye ;  't  is  not  vain,  or  fabulous, 
(Though  so  esteem'd  by  shallow  ignorance,) 

509.  Sadly  =  soberly,  seriously,  not  necessarily  sorrowfully. 
Bee  Paradise  Lost,  vi.  641. 


62  COMUS. 

S15  What  the  sage  poets,  taught  by  th'  heavenly  Muse, 
Storied  of  old  in  high  immortal  verse, 
Of  dire  chimeras,  and  inchanted  isles, 
And  rifted  rocks  whose  entrance  leads  to  hell ; 
For  such  there  be,  but  unbelief  is  blind. 

520      Within  the  navel  of  this  hideous  wood, 
Immur'd  in  cypress  shades  a  sorcerer  dwells, 
Of  Bacchus  and  of  Circe  born,  great  Comus, 
Deep  skill'd  in  all  his  mother's  witcheries ; 
And  here  to  every  thirsty  wanderer 

525  By  sly  enticement  gives  his  banef  ull  cup. 

With  many  murmurs  mixt,  whose  pleasing  poison 
The  visage  quite  transforms  of  him  that  drinks, 
And  the  inglorious  likenes  of  a  beast 
Fixes  instead,  unmoulding  reason's  mintage 

530  Character'd  in  the  face  :  this  I  have  learnt 
Tending  my  flocks  hard  by  i'  th'  hilly  crofts 
That  brow  this  bottom  glade,  whence  night  by  night 
He  and  his  monstrous  rout  are  heard  to  howl. 
Like  stabl'd  wolves,  or  tigers  at  their  prey, 

535  Doing  abhorred  rites  to  Hecate 

In  their  obscur'd  haunts  of  inmost  bowres. 
Yet  have  they  many  baits,  and  guilefull  spells, 
To  inveigle  and  invite  th'  unwary  sense 
Of  them  that  pass  unweeting  by  the  way. 

540  This  evening  late,  by  then  the  chewing  flocks 
Had  ta'n  their  supper  on  the  savoury  herb 
Of  knot-grass  dew-besprent,  and  were  in  fold, 
I  sate  me  down  to  watch  upon  a  bank 
With  ivy  canopied,  and  interwove 

526.  Murmurs  ==  incantations.     See  line  817. 
532.  Brow  =  overlook,  as  from  the  brow  of  a  hill. 
540.  By  then  =  by  the  time  when.     We  use  the  phrase  in  its 
demonstrative  form,  as  when  we  say  "  I  shall  do  it  by  then." 


COMUS.  6S 

•45  With  flaunting  honey-suckle,  and  began, 
Wrapt  in  a  pleasing  fit  of  melancholy, 
To  meditate  my  rural  minstrelsy, 
Till  fancy  had  her  fill :  but  ere  a  close, 
The  wonted  roar  was  up  amidst  the  woods, 

850  And  fiU'd  the  air  with  barbarous  dissonance ; 
At  which  I  ceas't,  and  listen'd  them  a  while, 
Till  an  unusuall  stop  of  sudden  silence 
Gave  respite  to  the  drowsy  frighted  steeds. 
That  draw  the  litter  of  close-curtain'd  sleep. 

655  At  last  a  soft  and  solemn-breathing  sound 
Kose  like  a  steam  of  rich  distill'd  perfumes. 
And  stole  upon  the  air,  that  even  Silence 
Was  took  e're  she  was  ware,  and  wish't  she  might 
Deny  her  nature,  and  be  never  more, 

660  Still  to  be  so  displac't.     I  was  all  ear, 

And  took  in  strains  that  might  create  a  soul 
Under  the  ribs  of  death :  but  O  ere  long 
Too  well  did  I  perceive  it  was  the  voice 
Of  my  most  honour'd  Lady,  your  dear  sister. 

565  Amaz'd  I  stood,  harrow 'd  with  grief  and  fear. 
And  O  poor  hapless  nightingale,  thought  I, 
How  sweet  thou  sing'st,  how  near  the  deadly  snare! 
Then  down  the  lawns  I  ran  with  headlong  haste, 
Through  paths  and  turnings  oft'n  trod  by  day, 

»70  Till  guided  by  mine  ear  I  found  the  place 
Where  that  damn'd  wizard,  hid  in  sly  disguise, 
(For  so  by  certain  signs  I  knew)  had  met 
Already,  ere  my  best  speed  could  praevent, 

647.  Meditate  r=r  practise. 
556.  Steam.     The  edition  of  1673  reads  stream. 
558.  Was  took.     We  are  wont  to  say  "  I  was  greatly  taken  " 
with  this  or  that. 

573.  Pr  SB  vent.     This   form   suggests  the  derivation  of  the 


M  COMUS. 

The  aidless  innocent  Lady,  his  wish't  prey , 

575  Who  gently  ask't  if  he  had  seen  such  two, 
Supposing  him  some  neighbour  villager. 
Longer  I  durst  not  stay,  but  soon  I  guess't 
Ye  were  the  two  she  mean't ;  with  that  I  sprung 
Into  swift  flight,  till  I  had  found  you  here, 

580  But  f urder  know  I  not. 

Second  Brother.  O  night  and  shades,  • 

How  are  ye  join'd  with  Hell  in  triple  knot. 
Against  th'  unarmed  weaknes  of  one  virgin, 
Alone,  and  helpless !     Is  this  the  confidence 
You  gave  me,  Brother  ? 

Elder  Brother.  Yes,  and  keep  it  still ; 

585  Lean  on  it  safely  ;  not  a  period 

Shall  be  unsaid  for  me :  against  the  threats 
Of  malice  or  of  sorcery,  or  that  power 
Which  erring  men  call  Chance,  this  I.  hold  firm, 
Virtue  may  be  assail'd,  but  never  hurt, 

590  Surpriz'd  by  unjust  force,  but  not  enthrall'd ; 
Yea,  even  that  which  mischief  meant  most  harm 
Shall  in  the  happy  trial  prove  most  glory. 
But  evil  on  it  self  shall  back  recoil, 
And  mix  no  more  with  goodness,  when  at  last 

365  Gather'd  like  scum,  and  setTd  to  it  self, 
It  shall  be  in  eternal  restless  change 
Self-fed,  and  self-consum'd  :  if  this  fail, 
The  pillar'd  firmament  is  rott'nness. 
And   earth's   base   built   on    stubble.     But   comeg 
let's  on! 

word  from  the  Latin  prcevenire.  For  the  old  meaning  of  pre- 
vent, notice  the  collect  for  17th  Sunday  after  Trinity. 

580.  It  is  curious  that  we  now  say  further  not  f urder  j  but 
murder,  not  murther. 

585.  Period.  That  is,  not  a  sentence  of  my  philosophic 
speech  shall  be  unsaid,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned. 


COMUS.  65 

•00  Against  tli'  opposing  will  and  arm  of  lieav'n 
May  never  this  just  sword  be  lifted  up  % 
But  for  that  damn'd  magician,  let  him  be  girt 
With  all  the  grisly  legions  that  troop 
Under  the  sooty  flag  of  Acheron. 

«05  Harpyies  and  Hydras,  or  all  the  monstrous  forms 
'Twixt  Africa  and  Inde,  I  '11  find  him  out. 
And  force  him  to  return  his  purchase  back, 
Or  drag  him  by  the  curls  to  a  foul  death, 
Curs'd  as  his  life. 

Spirit.  Alas !  good  vent'rous  Youth, 

610 1  love  thy  courage  yet,  and  bold  emprise ; 
But  here  thy  sword  can  do  thee  little  stead ; 
Farr  other  arms  and  other  weapons  must 
Be  those  that  quell  the  might  of  hellish  charms ; 
He  with  his  bare  wand  can  unthread  thy  joints, 

615  And  crumble  all  thy  sinews. 

Elder  Brother,  Why,  prithee.  Shepherd 

How  durst  thou  then  thyself  approach  so  near 
As  to  make  this  relation  ? 

Spirit.  Care  and  utmost  shifts 

How  to  secure  the  Lady  from  surprisal 
Brought  to  my  mind  a  certain  shepherd  lad, 

«2o  Of  small  regard  to  see  to,  yet  well  skill'd 
In  every  virtuous  plant  and  healing  herb, 
That  spreads  her  verdant  leaf  to  th'  morning  ray; 
He  lov'd  me  well,  and  oft  would  beg  me  sing, 
Which  when  I  did,  he  on  the  tender  grass 

«5  Would  sit,  and  hearken  e'en  to  ecstasy, 
And  in  requitall  ope  his  leathern  scrip. 
And  shew  me  simples  of  a  thousand  names, 
Telling  their  strange  and  vigorous  faculties. 

620.  Of  small  regard  to  see  to  =  insignificant  to  look  at. 


66?  COMUS. 

Amongst  the  rest  a  small  unsightly  root,     - 

630  But  of  divine  effect,  he  cuU'd  me  out ; 

The  leaf  was  darkish,  and  had  prickles  on  it, 

But  in  another  country,  as  he  said. 

Bore   a   bright    golden    flowre,    but    not    in    this 

soil : 
Unknown,  and  like  esteem'd,  and  the  dull  swain 

635  Treads  on  it  daily  with  his  clouted  shoon : 
And  yet  more  med'oinal  is  it  then  that  moly 
That  Hermes  once  to  wise  Ulysses  gave ; 
He  caird  it  hsemony,  and  gave  it  me, 
And  bad  me  keep  it  as  of  sovran  use 

640  'Gainst  all  inchantments,  mildew  blast,  or  damp. 
Or  ghastly  furies'  apparition. 
I  purs't  it  up,  but  little  reck'ning  made, 
Till  now  that  this  extremity  compell'd, 
But  now  I  find  it  true ;  for  by  this  means 

W5 1  knew  the  foul  inchanter  though  disguis'd, 
Enter'd  the  very  lime-twigs  of  his  spells. 
And  yet  came  off :  if  you  have  this  about  you, 
(As  I  will  give  you  when  we  go)  you  may 
Boldly  assault  the  necromancer's  hall ; 

650  Where  if  he  be,  with  dauntless  hardihood 

And  brandish 't  blade  rush  on  him,  break  his  glass, 
And  shed  the  luscious  liquor  on  the  ground, 
But  seize  his  wand :  though  he  and  his  curst  crew 
Fierce  sign  of  battail  make,  and  menace  high, 

655  Or  like  the  sons  of  Yulcan  vomit  smoke, 
Yet  will  they  soon  retire,  if  he  but  shrink. 

634.  Like  —  i.  e.  as  little  valued  as  known. 

637.  When  it  is  remembered  that  Coraus  possesses  a  like 
power  with  Circe,  the  comparison  here  is  suggestive,  for  moly 
was  the  herb  that  Hermes  gave  Odysseus  for  protection  against 
Circe's  oharm. 


COMUS,  6T 

Elder  Brother,     Thyrsis,  lead  on  apace,  1  '11  fol* 
*     low  thee, 
And  some  good  angel  bear  a  shield  before  us. 

The  Scene  changes  to  a  stately  palace,  set  out  with  all  manner  of  de- 
liciousness;  soft  music,  tables  spread  with  all  dainties.  COMUS 
appears  with  his  rabble,  and  the  Lady  set  in  an  inchanted  chair,  to 
whom  he  offers  his  glass,  which  she  puts  by,  and  goes  about  to  rise. 

Comus.     Nay,  Lady,  sit;    if    I   but    wave    this 
wand 
660  Your  nerves  are  all  chain'd  up  in  alabaster, 
And  you  a  statue  ;  or  as  Daphne  was. 
Root-bound,  that  fled  Apollo. 

Lady,  Fool,  do  not  boast : 

Thou  canst  not  touch  the  freedom  of  my  mind 
With  all  thy  charms,  although  this  corporal  rind 
665  Thou  hast  immanacled  while  Heav'n  sees  good. 

Comus,     Why  are  you  vext.  Lady  ?  why  do  you 
frown? 
Here  dwel  no  frowns,  nor  anger ;  from  these  gates 
Sorrow  flies  farr :  See,  here  be  all  the  pleasures 
.     That  fancy  can  beget  on  youthf ull  thoughts, 
$70  When  the  fresh  blood  grows  lively,  and  returns 
Brisk  as  the  April  buds  in  primrose-season. 
And  first  behold  this  cordial  julep  here. 
That  flames  and  dances  in  his  crystal  bounds, 
With  spirits  of  balm  and  fragrant  syrups  mixt. 
875  Not  that  Nepenthes,  which  the  wife  of  Thone 
In  Egypt  gave  to  Jove-born  Helena 
Is  of  such  power  to  stir  up  joy  as  this. 
To  life  so  friendly,  or  so  cool  to  thirst. 

667.  From  these  gates.  The  notion  of  a  walled  town  with 
gates  guarded  has  remained  in  literature  as  a  symbol  of  social 
life,  though  it  is  but  historical  in  Christendom. 


68  COMUS. 

Why  should  you  be  so  cruel  to  your  self, 

680  And  to  those  dainty  limbs  which  nature  lent  * 
For  gentle  usage,  and  soft  delicacy  ? 
But  you  invert  the  cov'nants  of  her  trust, 
And  harshly  deal,  like  an  ill  borrower. 
With  that  which  you  receiv'd  on  other  terms ; 

685  Scorning  the  unexempt  condition 

By  which  all  mortal  frailty  must  subsist, 
Refreshment  after  toil,  ease  after  pain, 
That  have  been  tir'd  all  day  without  repast, 
And  timely  rest  have  wanted ;  but,  fair  Virgin, 

690  This  will  restore  aU  soon. 

Lady,  'T  will  not,  false  traito^^ 

'T  will  not  restore  the  truth  and  honesty 
That  thou  hast  banish't  from  thy  tongue  with  lies. 
Was  this  the  cottage,  and  the  safe  abode 
Thou  told'st  me  of  ?    What  grim  aspects  are  these. 

695  These  ugly-headed  Monsters  ?  Mercy  guard  me ! 
Hence  with  thy  brew'd  inchantments,  foul  deceiver  I 
Hast  thou  betray'd  my  credulous  innocence 
With  visor 'd  f alshood  and  base  forgery  ? 
And  would 'st  thou  seek  again  to  trap  me  here 

wo  With  lickerish  baits  fit  to  ensnare  a  brute  ? 
Were  it  a  draft  for  Juno  when  she  banquets, 
I  would  not  taste  thy  treasonous  offer ;  none 
But  such  as  are  good  men  can  give  good  things, 
And  that  which  is  not  good,  is  not  delicious 

105  To  a  well-govern'd  and  wise  appetite. 

Comus,     O  foolishnes  of  men!  that  lend  theil 
ears 
To  those  budge  doctors  of  the  Stoic  Furr, 

679.  "  Thyself  tby  foe,  to  thy  sweet  self  so  cruel." 

Shakespeare,  Sonnet  L 
695.  Ugly.     Milton  spells  this  word  oughly. 


COMUS.  69 

And  fetch  their  precepts  from  the  Cynic  Tub, 
Praising  the  lean  and  sallow  Abstinence. 

no  Wherefore  did  Nature  pour  her  bounties  forth, 
With  such  a  full  and  un withdrawing  hand, 
Covering  the  earth  with  odours,  fruits,  and  flocks, 
Thronging  the  seas  with  spawn  innumerable, 
But  all  to  please  and  sate  the  curious  taste  ? 

n5  And  set  to  work  millions  of  spinning  worms. 

That  in  their  green  shops  weave  the  smooth-hair'd 

silk 
To  deck  her  sons ;  and  that  no  corner  might 
Be  vacant  of  her  plenty,  in  her  own  loins 
She  hutch't  th'  all-worshipt  ore,  and  precious  gems, 

720  To  store  her  children  with  :  if  all  the  world 
Should  in  a  pet  of  temp'rance  feed  on  Pulse, 
Drink   the   clear    stream,   and   nothing   wear  but 

frieze, 
Th'  all-giver   would    be   unthank't,   would   be   un- 

prais'd, 
Not  half  his  riches  known,  and  yet  despis'd ; 

J25  And  we  should  serve  him  as  a  grudging  master, 
As  a  penurious  niggard  of  his  wealth. 
And  live  like  Nature's  bastards,  not  her  sons, 
Who   would    be    quite    surcharg'd    with   her   own 

weight, 
And  strangl'd  with  her  waste  fertility ; 

730  Th'  earth  cumber'd,  and  the  wing'd  air  dark't  with 
plumes, 
The  herds  would  over-multitude  their  Lords, 
The  sea  o'erfraught  would  swell,  and  th'  unsought 

diamonds 
Would  so  emblaze  the  forehead  o^  the  deep, 

708.  Cynic  tub.     Diogenes  was  a  Cynic. 


70  COMUS. 

And  so  bestudd  with  stars,  that  they  below 
»35  Would  grow  inur'd  to  light,  and  come  at  last 

To  gaze  upon  the  sun  with  shameless  brows. 

List,  Lady,  be  not  coy,  and  be  not  cosen'd 

With  that  same  vaunted  name  Virginity. 

Beauty  is  nature's  coin,  must  not  be  hoarded, 
?4o  But  must  be  current,  and  the  good  thereof 

Consists  in  mutual  and  partak'n  bliss, 

Unsavoury  in  tli'  injoyment  of  it  self ; 

If  you  let  slip  time,  like  a  neglected  rose 

It  withers  on  the  stalk  with  languish't  head. 
745  Beauty  is  nature's  brag,  and  must  be  shown 

In  courts,  at  feasts,  and  high  solemnities. 

Where  most  may  wonder  at  the  workmanship ; 

It  is  for  homely  features  to  keep  home. 

They  had  their  name  thence ;  coarse  complexions, 
750  And  cheeks  of  sorry  grain,  will  serve  to  ply 

The  sampler,  and  to  tease  the  huswife's  wool. 

What  need  a  vermeil-tinctur'd  lip  for  that, 

Love-darting  eyes,  or  tresses  like  the  morn  ? 

There  was  another  meaning  in  these  gifts : 
?55  Think  what,  and  be  adviz'd  ;  you  are  but  young  yet. 
Lady.  I  had   not  thought  to  have    unlockt  my 
lips 

In  this  unhallow'd  air,  but  that  this  juggler 

Would  think  to  charm  my  judgement,  as  mine  eyes, 

748.  See  Shakespeare,  Tioo  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  Act  I.,  sc.  i. 
line  2. 

751.  From  house  wife  to  huswife,  from  huswife  to  hussy  are 
successive  steps  in  word  degeneration.  On  the  eastern  shore  of 
Maryland  where  old  English  terms  linger,  one  may  hear  of  the 
hen-hussy,  meaning  the  girl  who  takes  care  of  the  chickens,  and 
an  old  New  England  term  for  a  capacious  bag  holding  all  man- 
ner of  mending  and  sewing  materials  is  a  huswife,  pronounced 
buzzif. 


COMUS.  71 

Obtruding  false  rules  pranckt  in  reason's  garb* 

T60 1  hate  when  vice  can  bolt  her  arguments, 
And  virtue  has  no  tongue  to  check  her  pride. 
Impostor,  do  not  charge  most  innocent  Nature, 
As  if  she  would  her  children  should  be  riotous 
With  her  abundance ;  she,  good  cateress, 

765  Means  her  provision  only  to  the  good. 
That  live  according  to  her  sober  laws, 
And  holy  dictate  of  spare  temperance : 
If  every  just  man  that  now  pines  with  want 
Had  but  a  moderate  and  beseeming  share 

770  Of  that  which  lewdly-pamper'd  luxury 
Now  heaps  upon  some  few  with  vast  excess, 
Nature's  full  blessings  would  be  well  dispenc't 
In  unsuperiluous  even  proportion. 
And  she  no  whit  encumber'd  with  her  store ; 

775  And  then  the  giver  would  be  better  thank' t, 
His  praise  due  paid,  for  swinish  gluttony 
Ne'er  looks  to  heav'n  amidst  his  gorgeous  feast, 
But  with  besotted  base  ingratitude 
Crams,  and  blasphemes  his  feeder.      Shall   I   go 
on? 

780  Or  have  I  said  enough  ?     To  him  that  dares 
Arm  his  profane  tongue  with  contemptuous  words 
Against  the  sun-clad  power  of  Chastity, 
Fain  would  I  something  say,  yet  to  what  end  ? 
Thou  hast  not  ear,  nor  soul,  to  apprehend 

785  The  sublime  notion,  and  high  mystery. 
That  must  be  utter'd  to  unfold  the  sage 
And  serious  doctrine  of  Virginity. 

760.  Bolt.  Used  in  the  miller's  sense  :  to  sift,  to  separate 
meal  from  bran. 

762.  The  lady's  virtue  finds  tongue  in  the  lines  that  follow, 
to  answer  the  specious  argument  of  Comus. 


72  COMUS. 

And  thou  art  worthy  that  thou  shouldst  not  kno^ 
More  happines  then  this  thy  present  lot. 

790  Enjoy  your  dear  wit,  and  gay  rhetoric, 

That  hath  so  well  been  taught  her  dazzling  fence ; 
Thou  art  not  fit  to  hear  thy  self  convinc't ; 
Yet,  should  I  try,  the  uncontrolled  worth 
Of  this  pure  cause  would  kindle  my  rap't  spirits 

735  To  such  a  flame  of  sacred  vehemence. 

That  dumb  things  would  be  mov'd  to  sympathize, . 
And  the  brute  earth  would  lend  her  nerves,  and 

shake, 
Till  all  thy  magic  structures,  rear'd  so  high. 
Were  shatter'd  into  heaps  o'er  thy  false  head. 

300      Comus.  She  fables  not :  I  feel  that  I  do  fear 
Her  words  set  off  by  some  superior  power ; 
And  though  not  mortal,  yet  a  cold  shuddring  dew 
Dips  me  all  o'er,  as  when  the  wrath  of  Jove 
Speaks  thunder,  and  the  chains  of  Erebus, 

805  To  some  of  Saturn's  crew.     I  must  dissemble, 
And  try  her  yet  more  strongly. —  Come,  no  more ! 
This  is  mere  moral  babble,  and  direct 
Against  the  canon  laws  of  our  foundation  ; 
I  must  not  suffer  this,  yet  't  is  but  the  lees 

810  And  settlings  of  a  melancholy  blood  ; 

But  this  will  cure  all  straight ;  one  sip  of  this 
Will  bathe  the  drooping  spirits  in  delight. 
Beyond  the  bliss  of  dreams.     Be  wise,  and  taste.—' 

788.  ■Worthy.  In  Milton's  time  this  word  was  used  either  of 
ill  or  of  good  desert,  and  in  the  Bible  we  read  of  one  worthy  of 
few  stripes,  and  one  worthy  of  many  stripes.  Now  we  rarely 
use  it  of  ill  desert  except  in  the  phrase  "  worthy  of  punishment.'* 

791.  Dazzling  fence.  Comus  employs  rhetoric  as  skilfully 
as  the  fencer  employs  his  rapier. 

808.  Canon  laws  of  our  foundation.  By  an  audacious 
figure,  Comus  likens  his  society  of  brutes  to  the  church. 


COMUS.  T3 

2%e  Brothers  rush  in  with  swords  drawn,  wrest  his  glass  out  of 
his  hand,  and  break  it  against  the  ground;  his  rout  make  sign  of 
resistance,  but  are  all  driven  in.     The  attendant  Spirit  comes  in. 

Spirit.  What,  have  you  let  the  false  enchanter 
'scape  ? 

*5  O  ye  mistook,  ye  should  have  snatcht  his  wand, 
And  bound  him  fast :  without  his  rod  revers't, 
And  backward  mutters  of  dissevering  power. 
We  cannot  free  the  Lady  that  sits  here 
In  stony  fetters  fixt,  and  motionless ; 

820  Yet  stay,  be  not  distnrb'd :  now  I  bethink  me, 
Some  other  means  I  have  which  may  be  us'd, 
Which  once  of  Meliboeus  old  I  learnt. 
The  soothest  shepherd  that  e'er  piped  on  plains. 
There  is  a  gentle  nymph  not  f arr  from  hence, 

825  That  with   moist   curb    sways  the   smooth  Severn 
stream : 
Sabrina  is  her  name,  a  Virgin  pure  ; 
Whilom  she  was  the  daughter  of  Locrine, 
That  had  the  scepter  from  his  father  Brute. 
She,  guiltless  damsell,  flying  the  mad  pursuit 

830  Of  her  enraged  stepdam  Guendolen, 

Commended  her  fair  innocence  to  the  flood. 
That  stay'd  her  flight  with  his  cross-flowing  course. 
The  water  nymphs,  that  in  the  bottom  play'd. 
Held  up  their  pearled  wrists,  and  took  her  in, 

835  Bearing  her  straight  to  aged  Nereus'  hall ; 
Who,  piteous  of  her  woes,  rear'd  her  lank  head, 
And  gave  her  to  his  daughters  to  imbathe 
In  nectar'd  lavers  strew'd  with  asphodel, 

816.  As  the  wand  must  be  reversed  to  undo  its  enchanting 
power,  so  the  words  of  the  incantation  must  also  be  said  back* 
wrard. 


74  COMUS. 

And  through  the  porch  and  inlet  of  each  sense 

840  Dropt  in  ambrosial  oils,  till  she  reviv'd, 
And  underwent  a  quick  immortal  change, 
Made  Goddess  of  the  River :  still  she  retains 
Her  maid'n  gentlenes,  and  oft  at  eve 
Visits  the  herds  along  the  twilight  meadowSj 

845  Helping  all  urchin  blasts,  and  ill  luck  signs 
That  the  shrewd  medling  Elf  delights  to  make, 
Which  she  with  precious  vial'd  liquors  heals ; 
For  which  the  shepherds  at  their  festivals 
Carol  her  goodnes  loud  in  rustic  lays, 

860  And  throw  sweet  garland  wreaths  into  her  stream 
Of  pansieg,  pinks,  and  gaudy  daffodils. 
And,  as  the  old  swain  said,  she  can  unlock 
The  clasping  charm,  and  thaw  the  numbing  spell, ' 
If  she  be  right  invok't  in  warbled  song ; 

855  For  maid'nhood  she  loves,  and  will  be  swift 
To  aid  a  virgin,  such  as  was  her  self. 
In  hard  besetting  need ;  this  will  I  try, 
And  add  the  pow'r  of  some  adjuring  versGo 

SONG. 
Sahrina  fair^ 
m      Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 

Under  the  glassy^  cool,  translucent  wave. 

In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amher-droijping  half  / 
Listen  for  dear  honour'' s  sake, 
863      Goddess  of  the  silver  lake, 
Listen  and  save  ! 

845,  Urchin  blasts.  Elfin,  mischievous  sudden  blight,  sup 
posed  to  come  from  pestilential  winds. 

846=  Shrewd.  The  notion  of  quick-witted  is  less  intended 
than  that  of  brawling  or  cursing  which  resides  in  the  word  shrew. 


COMUS,  15 

Listen  and  appear  to  us 

In  name  of  great  Oceanus : 

By  the  earth-shaking  Neptune's  macej 
070  And  Tethys'  grave  majestic  pace; 

By  hoary  Nereus'  wrinkled  look, 

And  the  Carpathian  wisard's  hook ; 

By  scaly  Triton's  winding  shell, 

And  old  sooth-saying  Glaucus'  spell; 
875  By  Leucothea's  lovely  hands. 

And  her  son  that  rules  the  strands ; 

By  Thetis'  tinsel  slipper'd  feet, 

And  the  songs  of  Sirens  sweet ; 

By  dead  Parthenope's  dear  tomb, 
880  And  fair  Ligea's  golden  comb, 

Wherwith  she  sits  on  diamond  rocks 

Sleeking  her  soft  alluring  locks ; 

By  all  the  nymphs  that  nightly  dance 

Upon  thy  streams  with  wily  glance : 
885  Rise,  rise,  and  heave  thy  rosy  head 

From  thy  coral-pav'n  bed, 

And  bridle  in  thy  headlong  wave. 

Till  thou  our  summons  answer'd  have. 

Listen  and  save ! 

Sabbina  rises,  attended  hy  water-nymphs^  and  sings, 

890  hy  the  rushy-fringed  hanh^ 

Where  grows  the  willow  and  the  osier  danJc^ 

My  sliding  Chariot  stays, 
Thick  set  with  Agate,  and  the  azurn  sheen 
Of  TurJds  blew,  and  emerald  green^ 

885      That  in  the  channell  strays  ; 

872.  Carpathian  -wizard.     Proteus. 

887.  •*  There  is  a  gentle  nymph,  not  far  from  hence, 

That  Vfith  moist  curb  swaya  the  smooth  Savern  Btream." 


Sffi  COMUS. 

Whilst  from  off  the  waters  fleets 

Thus  I  set  my  printlessfeet 

O'er  the  cowslip's  velvet  head^ 

That  bends  not  as  I  tread; 
900  Gentle  swain,  at  thy  request 

I  am  here  ! 

Spirit,     Goddess  dear, 

"We  implore  thy  powerful  hand 

To  undo  the  charmed  band 
905  Of  true  virgin  here  distrest 

Through  the  force  and  through  the  wile 

Of  unblest  inchanter  vile. 

Sahrina,     Shepherd,  't  is  my  office  best 

To  help  insnared  chastity : 
910  Brightest  Lady,  look  on  me ; 

Thus  I  sprinkle  on  thy  breast 

Drops  that  from  my  fountain  pure 

I  have  kept  of  precious  cure, 

Thrice  upon  thy  fingers  tip, 
915  Thrice  upon  thy  rubied  lip ; 

Next  this  marble  venom'd  seat, 

Smear 'd  with  gumms  of  glutinous  heat, 

I  touch  with  chaste  palms  moist  and  cold : 

Now  the  spell  hath  lost  his  hold  ; 
920  And  I  must  haste  ere  morning  hour 

To  wait  in  Amphitrite's  bowr. 


Sabrina  descends,  and  the  Lady  rises  out  of  her 

Spirit.     Virgin,  daughter  of  Locrine, 
Sprung  of  old  Anchises'  line. 
May  thy  brimmed  waves  for  this 
928  Their  full  tribute  never  miss 
From  a  thousand  petty  rills. 
That  tumble  down  the  snowy  hills : 


COMUS.  77 

Summer  drouth  or  singed  air 

Never  scorch  thy  tresses  fair, 
380  Nor  wet  October's  torrent  flood 

Thy  molten  crystal  fill  with  mudd; 

May  thy  billows  roll  ashore 

The  beryl,  and  the  golden  ore ; 

May  thy  lofty  head  be  crown'd 
335  With  many  a  tower  and  terrace  round. 

And  here  and  there  thy  banks  upon 

With  groves  of  myrrh  and  cinnamon. 

Come,  Lady,  while  Heaven  lends  us  grace, 

Let  us  fly  this  cursed  place, 
wo  Lest  the  Sorcerer  us  intice 

With  some  other  new  device. 

Not  a  waste  or  needless  sound. 

Till  we  come  to  holier  ground. 

I  shall  be  your  faithful  guide 
«45  Through  this  gloomy  covert  wide; 

And  not  many  furlongs  thence 

Is  your  Father's  residence. 

Where  this  night  are  met  in  state 

!Many  a  friend  to  gratulate 
850  His  wish't  presence,  and  beside 

All  the  swains  that  there  abide. 

With  jiggs,  and  rural  dance  resort: 

We  shall  catch  them  at  their  sport. 

And  our  sudden  coming  there 
165  Will  double  all  their  mirth  and  chere : 

Come,  let  us  haste;  the  Stars  grow  high. 

But  night  sits  monarch  yet  in  the  mid  sky. 

S55.  Chere  =  cheer.  For  sake  of  rhyme  to  the  eye  appar* 
ently,  since  Milton's  customary  .form  i&  chear.  See  VAUegro, 
Sne  9S. 


78  COM  us. 

7%e  Scene  changes,  presenting  Ludlow  town  and  the  President^t 
castle ;  then  come  in  country  dancers,  after  them  the  attendanS 
Spikit  with  the  two  Brothers  and  the  Lady. 


SONG. 

Sinrit,      Bach,    Shepherds,  back,   enough  you 
play. 
Till  next  sun-shine  holiday  ; 
8w  Here  he  without  duck  or  nod 
Other  trippings  to  he  trod 
Of  lighter  toes,  and  such  cou/^t  guise 
As  Mercury  did  first  devise. 
With  the  mincing  Dryades, 
•65  On  the  lawns,  and  on  the  leas. 

This  second  Song  presents  them  to  their  Father  and  MoTHEB. 

JVbhle  Lord,  and  Lady  hright, 

I  have  hr ought  ye  new  delight. 

Here  hehold  so  goodly  grown 

Three  fair  branches  of  your  own  ; 
970  Heav'n  hath  timely  trVd  their  youth. 

Their  faith,  their  patience,  and  their  truths 

And  sent  them  here  through  hard  assays 

With  a  crown  of  deathless  praise. 
To  triumph  in  victorious  dance 
875  O'er  sensual  folly,  and  intemperance. 

The  dances  ended,  the  Spirit  epiloguises. 

Spirit     To  the  ocean  now  I  fly, 
And  those  happy  climes  that  lie 
Where  day  never  shuts  his  eye, 
Up  in  the  broad  fields  of  the  sky : 
180  There  I  suck  the  liquid  air 
All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 


COMUS.  T8 

Of  Hesperus,  and  his  daughters  three 

That  sing  about  the  golden  tree : 

Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowres 
985  Revels  the  spruce  and  jocond  Spring, 

The  Graces,  and  the  rosy-bosom'd  Howres, 

Thither  all  their  bounties  bring  ; 

There  eternal  Summer  dwells. 

And  West-winds,  with  musky  wing, 
990  About  the  cedar n  alleys  fling 

Nard  and  cassia's  balmy  smells. 

Iris  there  with  humid  bow 

Waters  the  odorous  banks  that  blow 

Flowers  of  more  mingled  hew 
995  Then  her  purfl'd  scarf  can  shew, 

And  drenches  with  Elysian  dew 

(List,  mortals,  if  your  ears  be  true) 

Beds  of  hyacinth  and  roses. 

Where  young  Adonis  oft  reposes, 
1000  Waxing  well  of  his  deep  wound 

In  slumber  soft,  and  on  the  ground 

Sadly  sits  th'  Assyrian  queen  ; 

But  farr  above  in  spangled  sheen 

Celestial  Cupid,  her  fam'd  son,  advanc't, 
1005  Holds  his  dear  Psyche  sweet  intranc't, 

After  her  wandring  labours  long, 

Till  free  consent  the  gods  among 

Make  her  his  eternal  bride. 

And  from  her  fair  unspotted  side 
1010  Two  blissful  twins  are  to  be  born. 

Youth  and  Joy ;  so  Jove  hath  sworn. 
But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  done : 

I  can  fly,  or  I  can  run 

1002.  Assyrian  queen.    Venus. 


80  COMUS. 

Quickly  to  the  green  earth's  end, 
1015  Where  the  bow'd  welkin  slow  doth  bend. 

And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 

To  the  corners  of  the  Moon. 
Mortals,  that  would  follow  me. 

Love  Virtue,  she  alone  is  free ; 
ao2o  She  can  teach  ye  how  to  clime 

Higher  than  the  spheary  chime : 

Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 

Heav'n  it  self  would  stoop  to  her, 

1020.  Clime,  an  older  form  of  climb. 


LYCIDAS. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

Lycidas  was  first  published  as  the  last  of  a  group 
of  poems  in  memory  of  Edward  King,  a  fellow-colle- 
gian of  Milton's,  who  had  written  some  poems  him- 
self, but  was  looking  to  a  place  as  a  priest  in  the 
Church  of  England ;  he  was  shipwrecked  when  on  his 
way  across  the  Irish  channel,  sailing  from  England  to 
Ireland.  In  the  volume  which  was  published  in  the 
winter  of  1637-38,  Milton  gave  no  title  to  the  poem, 
and  signed  the  poem  simply  with  his  initials,  J.  M. ; 
but  when  he  placed  it  in  his  first  collection  of  poems 
in  1645,  he  gave  it  the  title  it  bears.  He  took  the 
name  Lycidas  from  that  of  a  shepherd  in  one  of  Vir- 
gil's Eclogues.  The  reader  of  the  Eclogues  will  note 
not  merely  names  like  Lycidas,  Amaryllis,  Damsetas, 
Nesera,  which  Milton  has  borrowed  from  Virgil,  but 
many  felicitous  phrases  which  are  deft  translations 
from  the  Eclogues. 

The  entire  conceit  of  shepherds  and  their  songs 
which  runs  through  Lycidas  was  familiar  not  only 
in  Roman  but  in  English  verse  ;  but  Milton,  using  it 
first  as  a  slight  veil  to  cast  over  personal  associations, 
lifts  the  conception  into  dignity  and  a  gi'ave  value 
above  personal  lament,  by  his  bitter  reproach  of  the 
shepherds  of  the  sheepfold  of  the  church.  When  he 
jrepublished  Lycidas  in  his  own  collection,  he  wrote : 
•*  In  this  Monody  the  author  bewails  a  learned  friend. 


82  LYCIDAS. 

unfortunately  drowned  in  his  passage  from  Chester  on 
the  Irish  seas,  1637  ;  and  by  occasion  foretells  the 
f*uin  of  our  corrupted  clergy^  then  in  their  height ^"^ 
The  words  in  italic  show  how  his  mind  was  stirring, 
and  how  deeply  he  was  reflecting  on  the  great  reli- 
gious contentions  of  his  country.  England  was  on 
the  eve  of  civil  war,  and  the  firm  hand  of  the  ecclesi- 
astical authorities  was  lying  heavily  on  many  men's 
consciences.  It  is  not  strange,  therefore,  that  the 
lighter  strains  which  sounded  in  L^ Allegro^  11  P'en- 
seroso,  and  Oomus  here  pass  into  those  organ  notes 
which  were  to  be  heard  after  a  score  of  years  fully 
and  iu  sustained  measure  in  Paradise  Lost. 


LYCIDAS.   . 

Tet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more, 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sear», 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude, 
And  with  forc'd  fingers  rude 

6  Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year. 
Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear, 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due : 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 

10  Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas  ?     He  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  wat'ry  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

15      Begin  then,  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well, 

1.  Yet  once  more.  Milton  was  now  in  the  full  tide  of  his 
first  period  of  verse,  and  as  he  attacks  this  new  subject  it  is 
with  a  fresh  consciousness  of  his  high  poetic  errand  ;  and  as  the 
opening  lines  show,  in  a  figure  which  disregards  strict  liter- 
alness  of  parallel,  with  a  keen  sense  of  the  untimely  fate  which 
calls  out  his  poetic  speech. 

2.  The  form  sear  was  more  common  in  Milton's  time  than 
now  when  sere  prevails,  but  Scott  used  sear. 

6.  Dear  =  costly. 

10.  Readers  of  Virgil  will  note  the  likeness  to  neget  quis  car* 
niina  Gallo  in  the  tenth  Eclogue. 

13.  "Welter  =  rise  and  fall  with  the  waves. 

15.  Milton,  who  looks  for  his  models  to  classic  rather  than 
earlier  English  verse,  follows  the  almost  uniform  mode  of 
elegiac  verse  in  this  summons  to  the  muses  who  dwell  by  Heli- 
con. 


84  LYCIDAS. 

That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring. 

Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 

Hence  with  denial  vain,  and  coy  excuse ; 

So  may  some  gentle  Muse 
20  With  lucky  words  favour  my  destin'd  urn, 

And,  as  he  passes,  turn, 

And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 
For  we  were  nurst  upon  the  self-same  hill. 

Fed  the  same  flock,  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill ; 
25  Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appear'd 

Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn, 

We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 

What  time  the  gray-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn, 

Batt'ning  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night, 
30  Oft  till  the  Star  that  rose,  at  evening,  bright 

Toward  Heav'n's  descent  had  slop'd  his  westering 
wheel. 

Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute ; 

Tempered  to  th'  oaten  flute, 

Rough  Satyrs  danc'd,  and  Fauns  with  clov'n  heel 
35  From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long ; 

And  old  Damoetas  lov'd  to  hear  our  song. 

16.  Milton  drew  this  from  the  Greek  poet  Hesiod. 

19.  Muse  =  poet. 

20.  The  accent  in  reading  should  be  on  my,  since  the  poet  is 
wishing  for  a  future  reward  of  verse  for  himself,  like  that  he  is 
about  to  bestow. 

23.  It  should  be  remembered  that  the  singer  of  this  monody 
feigns  himself  and  Lycidas,  after  the  manner  of  ancient  versej 
to  be  shepherds.  The  actual  fact  was  that  they  had  a  common 
college. 

28.  Gray-fly,  otherwise  the  trumpet-fly. 

33.  The  fiction  of  shepherd  life  is  continued.  In  fancy  the 
rude  pipe  made,  of  straw  is  played  on,  the  rural  ditties  being 
tempered  or  set  to  it. 

36.  Damcetaa.    Theocritus  and  Virgil  used  this  name  for  th« 


LYCIDAS.  •  85 

But  O  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 

Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return ! 

Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert  caves, 
40  With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown, 

And  all  their  echoes,  mourn. 

The  willows,'  and  the  hazel  copses  green, 

Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 

Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
45  As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose. 

Or  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze, 

Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrope  wear, 

When  first  the  white-thorn  blows ;  ^ST 

Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 
60      Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless 
deep 

Clos'd  o'er  the  head  of  your  lov'd  Lycidas  ? 

For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep. 

Where  your  old  Bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 

Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 
65  Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream : 

Ay  me !  I  fondly  dream 

Had  ye  been  there  —  for  what  could  that  have  done  ? 

What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore, 

herdsman  in  their  pastorals.  It  is  suggested  that  Milton  was 
making  playful  reference  to  the  tutor  of  King  and  himself,  W- 
Chappell,  of  Christ's  College. 

38.  Must.  If  Milton  had  said  wilt,  he  would  have  implied 
that  Lycidas  could  but  would  not ;  must  declares  that  he  is 
\inder  constraint. 

41.  The  echoes  are  thus  made  individual  voices  of  nature. 

53.  The  fact  that  King  was  shipwrecked  when  making  pass- 
age from  England  to  Ireland  explains  why  Milton  thus  chooses 
Welsh  headlands  and  the  river  Dee  (Deva)  with  their  early  po- 
etic associations. 

56.  Fondly.     See  II  Penseroso^  line  6. 


86  .  LYCIDAS. 

The  Muse  herself,  for  her  inchanting  son, 
60  Whom  universal  nature  did  lament, 

When,  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar. 

His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 

Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore  ? 
Alas  !  what  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 
S5  To  tend  the  homely  slighted  shepherd's  trade. 

And  strictly  meditate  the  thankles  Muse  ? 

Were  it  not  better  done  as  others  use. 

To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 

Or  with  the  tangles  of  Nesera's  hair? 
TO  Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 

(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 

To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days ; 

But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 

63.  Milton  derives  from  Virgil  chiefly  the  story  of  Orpheua. 
He  was  a  famous  mythical  poet,  son  of  the  muse  Calliope.  So 
enchanting  was  his  song  that  he  could  move  trees  and  rocks  and 
wUd  beasts.  He  descended  into  the  lower  world  after  his  wif'S 
Eurydice,  who  had  died,  and  so  prevailed  upon  Persephone  with 
his  song  that  she  let  Eurydice  return  with  him  ;  but  he  for- 
feited her  before  they  reached  the  upper  air  through  his  diso- 
bedience in  looking  back  upon  the  passage  they  had  threaded. 
He  was  torn  in  pieces  by  the  Thracian  Msenads  because  of  the 
hatred  he  inspired  by  his  loss  of  Eurydice.  They  cast  his  head 
and  lyre  into  the  Hebrus,  which  bore  these  remains  to  Lesbos, 
where  they  were  buried. 

66.  Milton's  own  high  devotion  to  his  art  is  here  intimated. 
There  is  a  Virgilian  phrase  in  the  line.  Virgil  in  Eclogue  I» 
line  2,  wrote,  — 

"  Sylvestrem  tenui  Musam  meditaris  avena," 
which  Sydney  Smith  jocosely  translated,  "  We  cultivate  litera- 
ture on  a  little  oatmeal." 

67.  Use  =  are  wont.  We  use  the  past  form  only  in  this 
significance. 

69.  Amaryllis,  Neaera.  These  are  fanciful  names.  The 
former  is  a  Virgilian  remembrance. 


ZYCIDAS.  87 

And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
fe  Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  th'  abhorred  shears, 

And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.     But  not  the  praisBj 

Phoebus  replied,  and  touch'd  my  trembling  ears  ; 

Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 

'Nor.  in  the  glistering  foil 
80  Set  off  to.  th'  world,  nor  in  broad  rumour  lies  ; 

But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes, 

And  perfe't  witness  of  all-judging  Jove ; 

As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 

Of  so  much  fame  in  Heav'n  expect  thy  meed. 
85      O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honour'd  flood, 

Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crown'd  with  vocal  reeds. 

That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood ; 

But  now  my  oat  proceeds. 

And  listens  to  the  Herald  of  the  Sea 
ro  That  came  in  Neptune's  plea ; 

He  ask'd  the  waves,  and  ask'd  the  felon  winds. 

What  hard  mishap  hath  doom'd  this  gentle  swain? 

And  question 'd  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 

74.  Blaze. 

,  "  For  what  is  glory  but  the  blaze  of  fame  ?  " 

Paradise  Regained^  iii.  47. 

75.  Fury.  In  ancient  mythology,  as  Milton  knew  well,  it  waa 
the  office  of  one  of  the  three  fates  to  snip  the  thread  of  life. 
The  use  of  fury  may  have  been  accidental,  or,  wanting  a  dys- 
syllable,  the  poet  may  have  used  his  authority  in  handling  classic 
traditions  —  more  than  once  he  invents  his  classic  myths  —  to 
put  the  shears  into  the  hands  of  a  blind  fury  as  a  more  dramatic 
personage  for  his  purpose. 

79.  Foil.  Fame,  the  poet  says,  is  of  immortal  growth  ;  nor 
does  it  lie  either  in  some  shining  contrast  or  in  broad  rumor. 

81.  By  =  under  the  light  of. 

82.  Perfet  =  perfect,  from  the  French  form. 

86.  Mincius.  A  remembrance  of  Virgil,  Georgics  iii.  13~1& 
^The  poet  there  offers  to  build  a  votive  offering  by  the  Miucio. 


88  LYCIDAS. 

That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory : 
95  They  knew  not  of  his  story, 

And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings, 

That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  stray'd ; 

The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 

Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  play'd. 
loe  It  was  that  fatall  and  perfidious  bark,    • 

Built  in  th'  eclipse,  and  rigg'd  with  curses  dark, 

That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 
Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow, 

His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge, 
105  Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge 

Like  to  that  sanguine  flow'r  inscrib'd  with  woe. 

Ah  !  Who  hath  reft  (quoth  he)  my  dearest  pledge? 

Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 

The  Pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake ; 
m  Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain 

(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain). 

He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake : 

96.  Hippotades  =  iEolus,  son  of  Hippotas. 

97.  "Was  stray'd.  This  form  still  lingers  with  us,  but  it 
sounds  to  most  a  little  stiff.  It  holds,  however,  in  academic  use, 
as  when  we  say  a  man  was  graduated  from  college. 

103.  Camus.  It  will  be  remembered  that  King  was  from  the 
college  on  the  Cam. 

"Went  r=  wended  his  way. 

104.  Bonnet.  The  Scotch  still  use  this  word  for  male  as  well 
as  female  head  covering. 

106.  Like,  i.  e.  a  figure  like.  Sanguine  flower  =  the  hya- 
cinth. 

111.  To  know  the  uses  of  the  keys  one  needs  but  to  recall 
the  charge  to  St.  Peter. 

112.  Mitred  locks.  Milton  was  writing  in  a  time  when 
Episcopacy  was  a  question  of  the  hoar.  He  himself  was  op- 
posed to  Episcopacy  as  he  saw  it,  but  the  true  overseeing  of 
fiouls  was  another  matter,  and  thus  he  makes  St.  Peter  a  bishop. 


LYCIDAS.  89 

"How  well   could  I  have  spar'd  for  thee,  young 

swain, 
Enow  of  such  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 

J15  Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold  1 
Of  other  care  they  little  reck'ning  make. 
Then  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearer's  feast, 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest : 
Blind  mouths!    that  scarce  themselves  know  how 
to  hold 

120  A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learn'd  ought  else  the  least 
That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs ! 
What  recks  it  them  ?    What  need  they  ?    They  are 

sped; 
And,  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 
Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw ; 

135  The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed. 

But  swoln  witn  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 
Eot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread  ; 

U14-131.  In  this  terrible  indictment  by  St.  Peter  of  the 
priestly  shepherds  of  the  flock  of  English  souls,  Milton  pours 
out  with  impassioned  words  his  own  stern  judgment.  For  the 
satisfaction  of  carnal  desires  such  shepherds  enter  the  fold  by 
various  doors  other  than  the  one  door  ;  for  Milton  could  not  for- 
get the  parable  of  shepherd  and  fold  from  the  lips  of  the  Great 
Shepherd.  They  creep,  that  is,  they  enter  by  intrigue  and  cun- 
ning ;  they  intrude,  thrust  themselves  in  with  insolence  ;  they 
elimb,  seek  ambitiously  for  their  own  ends  to  mount  step  by 
step  to  high  dignities.  As  the  bishop  is  one  who  by  his  name 
oversees,  so  these  are  blind  ;  as  the  pastor  is  one  who  feeds 
another,  so  the  most  tmnatural  attributes  would  be  blindness  and 
eating,  and  hllnd  mouths  becomes  a  bold  condemnation  of  iniqui- 
tous practice  in  false  shepherds.  For  a  striking  study  of  the 
whole  passage  from  which  these  points  are  taken,  see  Ruskin, 
Sesame  and  Lilies,  20-22. 

123.  "When  they  list  =  when  it  is  their  pleasure.  See  Joha 
iii.  8. 


90  LYCIDAS. 

Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said  : 

130  But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 

Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more." 

Return,  Alpheus,  the  dread  voice  is  past, 
That  shrunk  thy  streams  ;  return,  Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 

135  Their  bells,  and  flourets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use. 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks, 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star  sparely  looks, 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamell'd  eyes, 

140  That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honied  showres, 
And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowres. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 

128.  The  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw.  The  reference  here 
is  to  the  accessions  which  the  Romish  church  was  quickly  making 
to  itself,  through  the  influence  of  the  court.  It  is  harely  possi- 
ble that  Milton  was  girding  at  the  Privy  Council,  which  with  the 
king  was  practically  the  government  of  the  realm,  in  oppositior 
to  the  parliament. 

130.  Two-handed  engine.  Engine  was  used  of  implements 
both  large  and  small ;  it  took  two  hands  to  swing  the  executioner's 
axe.     The  reference  here  may  be  to  the  English  Parliament. 

132.  The  poet,  remembering  how  far  he  has  been  led  away 
from  the  theme  he  entered  on,  makes  this  sudden  transition. 
The  river  Alpheus  was  fabled  to  have  passed  under  the  sea  and 
reissued  in  Sicily. 

135.  Bells,  i.  e.  bell-like  flowers. 

136.  Use.  See  line  67. 

138.  Swart-star,  i.  e.  the  dog-star. 

142.  Rathe.  This  positive  has  died  out  of  familiar  use,  but 
the  comparative  remains  in  rather  =  earlier,  sooner.  It  appears 
from  the  manuscript  of  the  poem,  preserved  at  Cambridge,  that 
this  passage  enumerating  the  flowers  was  an  afterthought,  and 
elaborated  by  Milton  with  great  care. 


LYCIDAS,  91 

The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 

The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  f  reakt  with  jet, 

145  The  glowing  violet, 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attir'd  woodbine, 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head, 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears ; 
Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 

150  And  daffodillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears. 
To  strew  the  laureate  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 
For  so,  to  interpose  a  little  ease. 
Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise. 
Ay   me !      whilst    thee   the    shores  and   sounding 
seas 

155  Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurl'd, 
Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
Where  thou  perhaps  under  the  whelming  tide 
Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world ; 
Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 

160  Sleep' st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old, 

Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  mount 
Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold ; 
Look  homeward.  Angel,  now,  and  melt  with  ruth. 
And,  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  haples  youth. 

165      Weep  no  more,  woful  Shepherds,  weep  no  more, 

143.  Crew-toe  hardly  sounds  as  natural  to  us  as  crow-foot. 

151.  Hearse  =  tomb. 

158.  Monstrous  -world  =z  world  of  monsters. 

160.  Bellerus  was  an  old  Cornish  giant. 

161.  The  guarded  mount  is  St.  Michael's  mount  on  the 
eoast  of  Cornwall. 

162.  Namancos  and  Bayona  stand  for  a  tower  and  castle 
in  Spain. 

163.  Angel,  i.  e.  St.  Michael. 

165.  The  poet  rises  above  the  thought  of  the  dead  body, 
washed  hither  and  thither  by  the  waves,  to  the  imperishable 
spirit. 


92  LYCIDAS. 

For  Lycidas  your  sorrow  is  not  dead, 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  wat'ry  floor  j 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed, 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head, 

iro  And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new  spangled  ore 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky. 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high. 
Thro'  the  dear  might  of  him  that  walk'd  the  wave% 
Where  other  groves,  and  other  streams  along, 

175  With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves. 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song. 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above. 
In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet  societies, 

180  That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move, 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more ; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  of  the  shore, 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 

185  To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  th'  oaks  and  rills, 
While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals  gray : 
He  touch'd  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills, 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay : 

190  And  now  the  sun  had  stretch'd  out  all  the  hills, 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay. 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitch'd  his  mantle  blew: 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods,  and  pastures  new. 

168.  Day-star  =  sun.  "  Till  thy  day-star  from  on  high  visit 
me. 

186.  Milton  here  speaks  in  his  own  voice,  not  in  that  of  the 
feigned  shepherd. 

190.  Stretch'd  out  all  the  hills,  i.  e.  made  long  shadows. 

193.  A  line  often  misquoted,  fields  being  read  for  woods. 
Milton  was  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  for  Italy. 


SONNETS. 

I.      ON  HIS   BEING  ARRIVED   TO  THE   AGE  OF 
TWENTY-THREE. 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth, 
Stol'n  on  his  wing  my  three  and  twentieth  yearl 
My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career. 
But  my  late  spring  no  bud  or  blossom  shew'th. 

5  Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive  the  truth, 

That  I  to  manhood  am  arriv'd  so  near, 
And  inward  ripenes  doth  much  less  appear. 
That  some  more  timely-happy  spirits  indu'th. 
Yet  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow, 
10      It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure  ev'n 
To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high. 
Toward   which   Time   leads   me,    and   the  will   of 
Heaven. 
All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so. 
As  ever  in  my  great  task-master's  eye. 

II.      TO   THE  LORD   GENERAL   FAIRFAX. 

Addressed  to  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax  at  the  siege  of  Colchester,  1648. 

Fairfax,  whose  name  in  arms  through  Europe  rings, 
Filling  each  mouth  with  envy  or  with  praise. 
And  all  her  jealous  monarchs  with  amaze 
And  rumours  loud,  that  daunt  remotest  kings, 

6  Thy  firm  unshaken  virtue  ever  brings 

Victory  home,  though  new  rebellions  raise 


94  SONNETS. 

Their  Hydra  heads,  and  the  false  North  displays 
Her  broken  league  to  imp  their  serpent  wings. 

O  yet  a  nobler  task  awaits  thy  hand, 
10      (For  what  can  war,  but  endless  war  still  breed  ?) 
Till  truth  and  right  from  violence  be  freed. 

And  public  faith  clear'd  from  the  shameful  brand 
Of  public  fraud.     In  vain  doth  valour  bleed, 
While  avarice  and  rapine  share  the  land. 

III.   TO  THE  LORD  GENERAL  CROMWELL. 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a  cloud 
Not  of  war  only,  but  detractions  rude, 
Guided  by  faith  and  matchless  fortitude. 
To    peace    and   truth    thy    glorious    way   hast 
plough'd, 
s  And  on  the  neck  of  crowned  fortune  proud 

Hast  rear'd  God's  trophies,  and   his  work  pur- 
sued, 
While  Darwen  stream,  with  blood  of  Scots  im- 
brued, 
And  Dunbar  field,  resounds  thy  praises  loud, 
And  Worcester's   laureat  wreath.     Yet   much   re- 
mains 
10      To  conquer  still ;  peace  hath  her  victories 
No  less  renown'd  than  war  :  new  foes  arise 
Threatening  to  bind  our  souls  with  secular  chains  : 

7.  A  reaction  had  come  in  the  Civil  War,  and  the  Scotch  de- 
clared for  the  king  ;  insurrections  were  also  springing  up  in 
Wales,  in  Kent,  and  in  London  itself.  This  was  shortly  before 
the  final  success  of  Cromwell. 

2.  Written  in  1652. 

8.  The  battle  of  Dunbar  was  fought  September  3,  1650. 

9  The  battle  of  Worcester  was  a  year  later  to  a  day.  It  was 
tiie  crowning  success  of  the  Parliamentary  army. 


SONNETS.  95 

Help  us  to  save  free  conscience  from  the  paw 
Of  hireling  wolves,  whose  gospe]  is  their  maw. 

IV.  TO  SIR  HENRY  VANE  THE  YOUNGER. 

Vane,  yonng  in  years,  but  in  sage  counsel  old, 
Than  whom  a  better  senator  ne'er  held 
The   helm  of    Rome,  when  gowns  not  arms  re« 

pell'd 
The  fierce  Epirot  and  the  African  bold, 
5  Whether  to  settle  peace,  or  to  unfold 

The  drift  of  hollow  states,  hard  to  be  spell'd, 
Then  to  advise  how  war  may  best,  upheld, 
Move  by  her  two  main  nerves,  iron  and  gold, 
In  all  her  equipage  :  besides  to  know 
10      Both  spiritual  pow'r  and  civil,  what  each  means. 
What  severs  each,  thou  hast  learn 't,  which  few 
have  done : 
The  bounds  of  either  sword  to  thee  we  owe : 
Therefore  on  thy  firm  hand  Religion  leans 
In  peace,  and  reckons  thee  lier  eldest  son. 

V.  ON   THE   LATE   MASSACRE   IN   PIEMONT. 

Avenge,  O  Lord,   thy   slaughter'd   saints,   whose 
bones 
Lie  scatter'd  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold ; 

1.  Vane  was  forty  years  okl  when  the  sonnet  was  addressed 
to  him,  and  one  of  the  most  active  men  in  the  councils  of  the 
Commonwealth.  Fifteen  years  before  he  had  been  a  resident 
m  Massachusetts.  He  was  an  eager,  restless  man,  of  high  ideaU 
and  noble  belief  in  tolerance. 

10.  In  this  sonnet  and  that  to  Cromwell,  Milton  gives  voice  to 
his  strong  plea  for  tlie  separation  of  Church  and  State. 

14.  Tliere  may  be  a  distant  reference  here  to  the  term  "  eld- 
est son  of  the  Church  "  used  of  the  King  of  Spain. 

1.  In  January,  1655,  the  Turin  government  issued  an  edict 


96  SONNETS. 

Ev'u  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old, 
When  all  our  fathers  worship't  stocks  and  stones, 
6  Forget  not :  in  thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piemontese  that  roll'd 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.     Their  moans 
The  vales  redoubl'd  to  the  hills,  and  they 
10  To  Heav'n.     Their  martyr 'd  blood  and  ashes  sow 
O'er  all  th'  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 
The  triple  tyrant ;  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hunder'd  fold,  who  having  learnt  thy  way 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 

VI.      ON   HIS   BLINDNESS. 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide, 
Lodg'd  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 
6  To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  he  returning  chide ; 
"  Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied  ?  " 
I  fondly  ask :  But  Patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "  God  doth  not  need 
10      Either  man's  work,  or  his  own  gifts  ;  who  b§st 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best :  his  state 

Is  kingly ;  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest ; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

what  the  inhabitants  of  the  Piedmont  valley,  who  had  for  genera- 
tions held  a  faith  not  unlike  that  of  Luther,  should  conform  to 
the  Catholic  religion.  Three  months'  time  was  given  them  under 
threat  of  expulsion.  On  the  seventeenth  of  April  soldiers  were 
let  loose  on  the  people  and  a  terrible  massacre  followed. 

13.  Hunder'd.     An  interesting  form  in  view  of  the  familiar 
pronunciation. 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTES  FOR  CAREFUL 
STUDY. 

Note  to  the  Teacher. 

'The  following  notes  are  the  result  of  an  experience  of  some 
years  in  answering  questions  of  detail,  and  clearing  up  difficul- 
ties of  interpretation,  which  arose  in  actual  class-room  study  of 
these  poems.  It  is  hoped,  however,  that  no  information  or  com- 
ment here  offered  will  prove  superfluous  or  impertinent.  Cer- 
tainly any  method  of  annotation  which  relieves  the  student  of 
the  duty  of  "  looking  up  things  "  in  the  ordinary  reference- books, 
or  supplants  intelligent  exposition  on  the  part  of  the  teacher,  is 
undesirable.  The  meaning  of  certain  words  has  been  suggested, 
mainly  by  reference  to  well-known  passages  in  Milton  and 
Shakespeare,  but  occasionally  by  definition.  These  are,  as  a 
rule,  words  which  are  now  in  common  use,  but  which  had  a  dif- 
ferent meaning  in  Milton's  day.  Otherwise  the  notes  aim  iliainly 
to  treat  the  larger  questions  of  Milton's  method. 

No  other  English  poet,  except  Shakespeare,  was  so  perfectly 
master  of  metrical  forms  as  Milton.  This  means,  of  course,  that 
his  art  is  too  subtle  to  be  thoroughly  analyzed  in  an  elementary 
class,  but  it  means  also  that  it  is  too  important  an  element  of 
his  power  as  a  poet  to  be  ignored.  In  these  notes  occasion  is 
taken  now  and  then  to  call  attention  to  some  of  the  simpler  ways 
in  which  he  varies  metre  to  suggest  not  only  the  general  char- 
acter of  his  theme,  but  the  flexibility  of  mood  and  shifting  of 
atmosphere  which  belong  to  lyrical  poetry. 

For  the  rest,  sufficient  analysis  of  the  structure  of  the  poems 
may  be  here  offered  to  help  the  student  toward  feeling  that  the 
poet  is  producing  sense  as  well  as  poetry;  that  Milton,  with  all 
his  condensation  and  his  omission  of  connecting  links,  really  has 
something  straightforward  and  connected  to  say  or  sing,  and  is 
not  merely  making  figurative  remarks  at  random  in  verse. 


98  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTES. 


L' Allegro  and  II  Penseroso. 

These  poems  must  be  read  together,  to  be  read  intelligently. 
They  were  written  shortly  after  Milton  left  the  university,  prob- 
ably at  some  time  during  the  years  which  he  spent  in  the  coun- 
try, upon  his  father's  estate  at  Horton.  It  must  be  understood 
very  clearly,  in  order  to  get  into  the  spirit  of  the  companion 
poems,  that  the  young  Milton  did  not  suppose  himself  to  be  de- 
scribing the  lives  of  two  totally  different  human  types,  —  a  jolly 
fellow  and  a  gloomy  fellow.  He  was  not,  indeed,  describing 
iwo  persons  at  all,  but  two  moods,  and  those  the  moods  of  such 
a  person  as  he  was,  in  such  surroundings  as  his  were,  when  the 
poems  were  written.  The  central  figure  in  both  poems  is  the 
same  young  Milton,  a  rather  quiet,  bookish  person  leading  his 
quiet,  bookish  life,  at  a  gentleman's  country-seat.  These  two 
delightful  poems,  then,  are  simply  ideal  descriptions  of  two  sorts 
of  pleasant  day  in  the  country,  which  in  two  different  moods  the 
poet  has  himself  enjoyed. 

In  the  earlier  mood  he  is  not  jovial,  but  cheerful,  buoyant, 
easily  pleased  with  the  surface  of  the  present  life  which  he  sees 
about  him  and  the  past  life  with  which  his  reading  has  filled  his 
mind.'  In  the  later  mood  he  is  inclined  to  look  deeper  into  pre- 
sent and  past,  and  to  look  forward  as  well,  not  gloomily,  but 
soberly.  The  earlier  ideal  is  as  far  from  uproarious  mirth  as 
the  latter  from  despairing  melancholy;  in  one  case  the  poet  is 
content  to  yield  himself  to  the  pleasant  current  of  daily  exist- 
ence, in  the  other  he  is  moved  to  ponder  somewhat  seriously 
upon  its  meaning. 

The  first  day  begins  before  dawn  and  ends  at  midnight;  the 
second  begins  in  the  evening,  at  dusk,  and  ends  at  noon  of  the 
following  day. 

L' Allegro. 

It  will  be  noticed  that  in  U Allegro,  II  Penseroso,  and  Lycidas, 
Milton  follows  the  custom  of  the  classical  poets  in  prefacing  his 
poems  with  an  invocation.  In  the  first  two  poems,  however,  the 
invocation  is  preceded  by  a  passage  in  precisely  the  contrary 
vein.  The  poet  warns  away  the  unsympathetic  spirit  before 
summoning  the  sympathetic  one.     In. his  lighter  mood  the  spirit 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTES.  99 

of  brooding  pensiveness  which  he  calls  "  melancholy  "  is  really 
distasteful  to  him,  just  as  in  his  graver  mood  the  spirit  of  un- 
thinking cheerfulness  which  he  calls  "mirth"  is  distasteful. 
With  this  in  view,  the  contrast  between  the  fanciful  parentage 
ascribed  to  Mirth  and  Melancholy  in  the  two  poems  is  worth 
studying.  Milton,  here  as  always,  is  free  to  give  to  the  Greek 
myths  a  turn  of  his  own,  as,  indeed,  the  Greek  poets  themselves 
were  in  the  habit  of  doing.  To  the  classically  trained  audience 
for  which  he  wrote,  those  myths  afforded  the  simplest  and  most 
natural  basis  for  figurative  speech.  Whatever  the  effect  of  the 
poet's  classicism  may  be  upon  modern  readers,  his  expression  of 
it  can  hardly  have  seemed  to  his  contemporaries  in  the  least 
pedantic  or  forced. 

Lines  1-10.  The  uneven  measure  of  these  lines  suggests  the 
sombreness  of  the  theme;  and  the  succession  of  rough  conso- 
nants, especially  the  sharp  aspirates  and  hissing  sibilants  of  the 
fourth  verse,  contrasts  strikingly  with  the  tripping  melody  of 
the  succeeding  lines.  The  extreme  of  rapidity  is  attained  in 
lines  25-35,  in  which  there  are  only  two  tetrameters  of  the  full 
eight  syllables,  the  first  (unaccented)  syllable  being  omitted  in 
the  others.  The  airy  flexibility  which  Milton  gives  the  rest  of 
the  poem  is  due  largely  to  the  art  with  which  he  varies  the  line 
of  eight  syllables  with  the  line  of  seven.  As  might  be  expected 
from  the  more  serious  tone  of  the  poem,  there  are  far  fewer 
seven-syllable  iambics  in  II  Penseroso. 

5.  Uncouth.  The  word  apparently  has  here  something  of 
its  original  meaning,  "  unknown." 

10.  Dark  Cimmerian  desert.  Homer  mentions  the  Cimme- 
rians (Odyssey t  XI.  14)  as  a  people  dwelling  upon  the  Eastern 
borders  of  the  known  world,  "  beyond  the  ocean-stream,"  in  a 
land  of  perpetual  darkness. 

12.  Yclep'd.  In  most  editions  spelled  "yclept."  An  in- 
teresting survival  of  an  Old  English  participial  form,  the  y  being 
a  modification  of  the  prefix  ge  which  is  still  used  in  forming  the 
German  participle. 

24.  Buxom.  This  word  has  had  a  curious  history.  It  ori- 
ginally meant  flexible  or  yielding,  then  came  to  mean,  as  in  this 
passage,  graceful,  and  now  commonly  signifies  a  strapping  come- 
liness. 

27, 28.     The  student  should  be  careful  to  get,  by  the  use  of  a 


100  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTES. 

dictionary,  the  precise  distinction  in  meaning  between  Quips  and 
Cranks,  and  between  Nods  and  Becks. 

41.  At  this  point,  though  the  transition  is  not  marked  even 
by  a  full  stop  at  the  end  of  the  preceding  line,  begins  the  body 
of  the  poem,  —  the  description  of  one  kind  of  day  in  the  country 
which  the  poet  in  his  lighter  mood  finds  enjoyable. 

45.  Then  to  come.  It  is,  of  course,  the  poet,  not  the  lark, 
who  comes  to  the  window. 

50,  51.  It  has  always  appeared  to  the  editor  that  the  move- 
ment of  these  lines  (especially  the  jerky  effect  caused  by  the 
necessity  of  throwing  back  the  accent  on  the  first  and  third  feet 
in  line  51)  pretty  clearly  suggests  the  rhythm  of  the  call  of  the 
cock  :  — 

"  Scatters  the  rdar  of  ddrknes  thin, 
And  to  the  stack,  6v  the  barn  do(5r." 

57.  Some  time  walking,  not  unseen.  Here  the  Cheerful 
Youth  evidently  leaves  the  house,  to  spend  the  morning  in  stroll- 
ing about  the  country-side,  "  not  unseen  ;  "  that  is,  with  a  quiet 
pleasure  in  the  nearness  of  the  country  people. 

80.  Cynosure.  The  Greek  name  for  the  constellation  of  the 
Lesser  Bear,  which  contains  the  pole-star,  by  which  Phoenician 
sailors  steered. 

81.  Hard  by  a  cottage  chimney  smokes.  The  interval  from 
noon  to  late  afternoon  (line  91)  is  passed  over  somewhat  rap- 
idly. 

98.  Sunshine  holyday.  The  phrase  is  repeated  in  Comus, 
959. 

102-114.  Faery  Mab.  Friar  Rush,  or  Will  o'  the  Wisp 
(104),  and  Robin  Goodfellow  (105-114),  were  the  three  princi- 
pal figures  among  the  mischievous  sprites  of  early  English  folk- 
lore. The  type  is  suggested  in  Shakespeare  by  Puck  rather 
than  by  the  more  delicate  conceptions,  Oberon  and  Titania  (A 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream),  or  Ariel  {The  Tempest). 

117.  ToTvred  cities  please  us  then.  The  coimtry  people 
have  gone  to  bed  (it  is  perhaps  half-past  eight  or  nine  o'clock), 
but  the  Cheerful  Youth  is  loath  to  end  his  happy  day,  and  spends 
the  next  few  hours  in  reading  of  a  lighter  sort.  This  reading  is 
chosen  from  :  1.  Romances,  mainly  metrical  (117-124)  ;  2. 
Masques  (125-130)  ;  3.   Comedy  (131-134). 

132.  Jonson's  learned  sock.     The  "  sock,"  or  low-heeled 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTES.  101 

shoe,  was  worn  by  Greek  actors  in  playing  comedy,  as  the 
"buskin,"  or  high-heeled  boot,  was  worn  in  playing  tragedy. 
(See  11  Penseroso,  102.) 

135-14-1.  Here,  in  imagining  the  sort  of  music  which  fits  his 
cheerful  mood,  the  poet  seems  to  waive  the  special  circumstances 
of  his  rural  surroundings  ;  unless  it  is  himself  that  plays  and 
sings. 

145-150.  The  story  of  Orpheus  was  one  of  Milton's  favorite 
myths.     See  //  Penseroso,  105-108  ;  Lycidas,  58-63. 


Il  Penseroso. 

It  is  evident  from  the  outset  that  this  poem  presents  an  exact 
parallel  to  U Allegro,  except  for  the  facts  that  it  is  somewhat 
longer,  and  that  a  brief  passage  at  the  end  expressing  aspiration 
has  no  counterpart  in  U Allegro. 

3.  Bested  =  avail.  *^ 

10.  The  student  should  be  sure  that  he  understands  pensioner 
and  train. 

14.  To  hit  the  sense  =z  to  suit  the  powers. 

30.  No  fear  of  Jove.  Saturn  was  ousted  from  the  throne  of 
heaven  by  Jove,  or  Zeus. 

42.  Forget  thyself  to  marble.  Milton  had  written,  a  year 
or  two  before,  in  the  lines  on  Shakespeare,  — 

"  Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  itself  bereaving, 
Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiving." 

51-54.  Guiding  the  fiery-vrheeled  throne,  etc.  "  A  daring 
use,"  says  Masson,  "  of  the  great  vision  of  Ezekiel,  chap,  x.,  of 
tlie  sapphire  throne,  the  wheels  of  which  were  four  cherubs,  each 
wheel  or  cherub  full  of  eyes,  all  over,  while  in  the  midst  of  them, 
and  underneath  the  throne,  was  a  burning  fire.  Milton,  whether 
on  any  hint  from  previous  Biblical  commentators  I  know  not, 
ventures  to  name  one  of  these  cherubs  who  guides  the  fiery  wheel- 
ings of  the  visionary  throne.  He  is  the  cherub  Contemplation, 
It  was  by  the  serene  faculty  named  Contemplation  that  one  at- 
tained the  clearest  notions  of  divine  things  —  mounted,  as  it  were, 
into  the  very  blaze  of  the  Eternal." 

56.  'Less  Philomel,  etc.  Here,  with  the  song  of  the  night* 
iiigale,  the  body  of  the  poem  begins. 


102  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTES. 

57.  Plight.  Most  editors  take  this  to  mean  "  mood,"  though 
it  may  possibly  mean  "  strain." 

59.  "While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke.  This  pas- 
sage has  sometimes  been  interpreted  to  mean  that  the  moon 
actually  stops  to  hear  the  song  of  the  nightingale  ;  but  "  check  " 
may  properly  mean"  control,"  with  perhaps  some  fanciful  notion 
of  a  slackening  of  pace. 

61,  62.  The  beauty  of  this  couplet  depends  upon  the  subtle 
modulation  of  the  second  line  :  the  alliterative  sound,  the  neces- 
sary loitering  of  the  voice  in  pronouncing  "  most,"  and  the  sud- 
den acceleration  at  the  end,  the  last  two  syllables  of  "  melan- 
choly "  being  of  course  uttered  very  lightly. 

65.  Walk  unseen.  The  Pensive  youth  prefers  absolute  soli- 
tude.    Contrast  L^ Allegro,  57. 

76.  Swinging  slow  w^ith  sullen  roar.  This  line  seems  to 
refer  to  the  sound  of  the  sea  breaking  upon  "  some  wide-water'd 
shore  "  rather  than  to  the  sound  of  the  bell  itself. 

78.  L^ Allegro  enjoyed  the  merry  group  of  peasants  gathered 
about  a  bright  hearth  ;  II  Penseroso  muses  alone  over  a  smoulder- 
ing fire  in  a  shadowy  room. 

94.  According  to  the  ancients  the  four  universal  elements 
were  earth,  air,  fire,  and  water,  under  control  respectively  of 
gnomes,  sylphs,  salamanders,  and  nymphs — the  daemons  or 
spirits  here  alluded  to. 

97.  Instead  of  reading  comedies  written  by  his  own  contem- 
poraries (^U Allegro,  131-134),  the  poet  in  his  grave  mood  pores 
over  the  tragedies  of  ^schylus,  Sophocles,  and  Euripides. 

131.  The  coming  of  dawn  is  the  signal  for  the  poet  to  seek 
the  shadows  of  the  forest,  there  to  sleep  for  a  time,  still  haunted 
by  mysterious  dreams,  echoes  of  his  waking  thoughts. 

170.  Rightly  spell  =  interpret  properly. 


COMUS. 

We  read  Comus  as  poetry  now,  but  it  was  originally  written 
as  the  "book"  of  what  we  should  now  call  a  "musical  spec- 
tacle," and  what  was  then  called  a  "  masque."  Its  purely  dra- 
matic quality  is  very  slight,  or  rather  elementary.  Like  other 
masques,  it  makes  little  pretence  of  creating  characters,  gets  on 
without  the  rapid  give-and-take  of  genuine  human  dialogue,  and 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTES.  103 

depends  upon  "  situation "  for  whatever  dramatic  effect  is 
achieved.  Comus  is,  as  a  poem,  didactic  rather  than  dramatic 
or  lyrical.  The  Lady  has  no  distinct  human  personality,  and 
the  two  Brotheis  differ  merely  as  types.  Considered  as  persons 
they  would  all  be,  we  must  admit,  a  little  tiresome,  but  as  figures 
in  an  allegory  they  have  a  fitness  and  even  a  beauty  of  their  own. 
That  allegory  we  might  call  "The  Triumph  of  Purity." 

Metrically  the  poem  is  very  interesting.  The  more  serious 
portions  of  the  narration  and  dialogues  are  as  a  rule  in  blank 
verse,  the  lighter  in  rhymed  tetrameters  ;  and  as  usual  Milton 
employs  each  of  these  forms  so  flexibly  as  to  convey  the  impres- 
sion of  subtle  changes  of  mood  by  means  of  subtle  modulations 
of  metre. 

10.  This  mortal  change.  This  phase  of  mortal  life,  which 
the  immortal  spirit  undergoes.  Milton,  like  Wordsworth  (Ode 
on  Intimations  of  Immortality),  evidently  conceived  of  immortality 
as  reaching  indefinitely  into  the  past  as  well  as  into  the  future. 
Compare  "immortal  change,"  line  841. 

60.  The  Celtic  and  Iberian  fields.  By  this  account  Comus 
made  his  way  northward  from  the  Mediterranean  through  Spain 
and  France,  across  the  Channel  to  Britain  and  the  Welsh  forest 
in  which  the  action  takes  place. 

65.  Orient.  Does  this  adjective  allude  to  flavor  or  color  ? 
Compare  Paradise  Lost,  I.  546. 

66.  What  is  the  metrical  peculiarity  of  this  line  ? 

68.  What  is  the  difference  between  the  effect  of  Comus's  en- 
chantment and  that  of  his  mother  Circe  as  described  in  the 
Odyssey  ?  What  practical  advantage  did  Milton  gain  by  so 
limiting  the  effect  of  the  draught  ? 

73.  Misery.  Not  "  unhappiness,"  but "  wretchedness,"  "de- 
gradation." 

88.  Nor  of  lesse  faith  =  "  and  not  less  faithful  as  a  servant 
than  skillful  as  a  musician." 

93.  The  blank  verse,  which  has  been  best  fitted  for  the  mea- 
sured and  serious  character  of  the  long  introductor}'-  speech  of 
the  Guardian  Spirit,  now,  with  the  entrance  of  Comus  and  his 
revelling  crew  breaks  into  the  rhymed  tetrameter  which  has 
become  familiar  in  L^ Allegro  and  II  Penseroso.  This  holds  until 
line  115,  when  the  movement  becomes  more  irregular.  How 
does  this  irregularity  add  to  the  effectiveness  of  the  next  twenty 
lines  ? 


104  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTES. 

112.  Does  the  word  quire  here  suggest  "  tlie  music  of  the 
spheres  "  ?  or  does  it  mean  simply  "  company  "  ? 

139.  Nice  is  ironical  ;  what  does  it  mean  ?  Is  descry  (141) 
used  in  the  modern  sense  ? 

144.  The  Measure.  Here,  in  the  actual  production  of  the 
masque,  some  minutes  must  have  been  occupied  by  the  dancing 
of  the  first  ballet  in  this  half-poetic,  half-spectacular  "  produc- 
tion." 

153,  154.  Thus  I  hurl,  etc.  Evidently  these  words  are 
accompanied  by  some  sort  of  gesture,  probably  followed  by  the 
simple  stage  device  of  a  diffused  light  thrown  about  the  person 
of  Comus.  The  change  in  his  appearance  which  this  "  magic 
dust "  effects  is  a  convenient  form  of  disguise.  He  still  retains 
his  picturesqueness  in  the  eyes  of  the  audience,  and  is  as  little 
recognizable  to  the  Lady  as  if  he  had  actuallj'^  put  on  the  clothing 
of  a  villager  —  a  shift  which  the  attendant  spirit  has  already 
adopted.  It  does  not  seem  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  the 
"  silver  lining  "  of  the  "  sable  cloud  "  which  the  Lady  sees  later 
is  the  distant  light  of  Comus's  "  dazzling  spell." 

157.  Is  quaint  used  in  the  ordinary  modern  sense  ? 

177.  What  is  the  force  of  amiss  ? 

194.  Envious  =  malicious. 

230.  The  song  to  Echo  owes  much  of  its  beauty  as  poetry  to 
the  remarkable  flexibility  of  its  metrical  form.  Its  iambic 
measure  varies  from  dimeter  to  hexameter,  and  its  rhymes  fall 
irregularly. 

269.  Every  bleak  unkindly  fog.  Compare  A  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,  II.  i.  88-90. 

286.  Ho-w  easy  my  misfortune  is  to  hit.  The  Lady  is 
a  little  impatient  of  this  stupid  countryman's  comments,  and 
speaks  ironically. 

297-302.  Their  port  -was  more  than  human.  These  lines 
contain  a  courtly  compliment  to  the  two  sons  of  the  house  of 
Bridgewater,  who  are  almost  immediately  to  appear  before  the 
audience. 

299.  The  element.     Compare  Twelfth  Night,  Act  1.  Sc.  i.  26. 

302.  An  oddly  irregular  verse,  the  pause  at  the  semicolon 
falling  between  the  two  unaccented  syllables  of  an  anapestic 
foot. 

325.  Courts  of  princes,  etc.  Compare  The  Faery  Queen, 
Book  VL  Canto  i.  2. 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTES.  105 

331^79.  The  long  dialogue  between  the  two  Brothers  which 
follows  would  be  quite  out  of  place  in  a  play.  The  tone  of  their 
speeches  is  declamatory  rather  than  dramatic.  See  the  Intro- 
ductory Note  to  Comus. 

349.  Innumerous  =  innumerable.  Compare  "  unexpressive,'* 
Lycidas,  176. 

402.  Single.     Compare  369. 

426.  Mountaineer.  The  word  has  frequently  a  bad  sense  in 
Milton  and  Shakespeare.  See  Cymbeline,  Act  IV.  Sc.  ii.  71  and 
120. 

426.  What  is  the  force  of  very  in  this  line  ? 

438-449.  Again  it  is  necessary  to  remember  that  not  only 
Milton,  but  the  audience  for  which  he  was  writing,  was  saturated 
with  classical  learning.  The  passage  which  follows  is  therefore 
not  more  pedantic  than  the  preceding  allusions  to  English  super- 
stitions. 

490.  Professor  Masson  says,  "A  stage-direction,  printed  in 
Lawes's  edition  of  1637,  but  omitted  in  Milton's  editions,  ought 
to  have  been  retained  :  '  He  hallos  ;  the  Guardian  Daemon  hallos 
again,  and  enters  in  the  habit  of  a  Shepherd.'  " 

495-512.  Thyrsis  has  been  spoken  of  as  a  pastoral  singer,  and 
Ml  consequence  these  lines  are  cast  in  the  rhymed  couplets  which 
were  the  favorite  form  in  English  pastoral  poetry. 

530.  Character'd.  What  was  the  original  meaning  of  the 
word  ?  How  is  it  accented  here  ?  Compare  Hamlet,  Act  I.  Sc, 
ii.  : 

"  And  these  few  precepts  in  thy  memory 
See  thou  character." 

558.  "Was  took.  Compare  A  Winter's  Taky  Act  IV.  Sc.  iv. 
118-120  : 

"  Daffodils, 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty." 

599.  What  is  the  metrical  peculiarity  of  this  line  ? 
607.  Purchase  is  used  in  its  older  sense. 
633.  An  odd  line,  metrically  : 

"  B6re  a  bright  gdlden  fldwer,  but  ndt  in  this  soil." 

638.  Haemony.  Hsemonia  was  an  old  name  for  Thessalyj 
especially  the  laud  of  magic  with  the  Greeks.     (Masson.) 


106  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTES. 

655.  Or  like  the  sons  of  Vulcan  vomit  smoke.  See 
uEneid,  Book  VIII.  251-253. 

660.  Used  in  the  old  sense,  which  is  still  retained  in  our  phrase 
"  a,  nervous  style." 

675,  676.  That  Nepenthes,  etc.  In  the  Odyssey  Helen  gives 
to  her  husband  Menelaus,  mixed  with  his  wine,  an  opiate  which 
she  had  obtained  from  Polydamnia,  the  wife  of  Thone.  It  was 
called  nepenthes  ("  pain- dispelling  "),  and  was  of  wonderful  vir- 
tue.    (Masson.) 

707.  Those  budge  doctors  of  the  Stoic  fur.  A  "  budge- 
gown  "  was  a  furred  gown  indicating  a  certain  academic  rank  in 
the  English  university  ;  bud3"'=5  also  meant  "  portly." 

733.  The  deep.  The  reading  of  an  early  manuscript,  "  would 
so  bestud  the  centre  with  their  starlight  "  ("  centre  "  meaning 
"  centre  of  the  earth  "),  makes  it  fairly  clear  that  deep  here 
means  "  depths  of  the  earth."  The  phrase  "  those  below," 
therefore,  woidd  refer  to  the  gnomes  and  other  supernatural 
creatures  who  were  supposed  to  dwell  within  the  earth. 

750.   Grain  =  color.     Compare  II  Penseroso,  33. 

779.  In  dnsupdrfluoiis  ^ven  propdrtion. 

780-799.  These  lines  present  the  doctrine  which  constitutes 
the  motive  of  the  masque,  and  which  have  already  been  expressed 
by  the  Elder  Brother  (see  lines  420-475). 

841.  Immortal  change.     Compare  line  10. 

852.  Who  is  the  old  s^wain  here  mentioned  ? 

868-880.  The  proper  names  in  this  passage  should  be  looked 
up  in  a  classical  dictionary. 

922,  923.  Locrine  was  by  tradition  the  eldest  son  of  the  Tro- 
jan Brutus,  who  was  fabled  to  be  one  of  the  first  kings  of 
Britain. 

960,  961.  Here  be  -without  duck  or  nod,  etc.  The  song  is 
preceded  by  a  rustic  ballet,  which  is  followed  almost  immediately 
by  a  court  ballet  ;  after  which  comes  the  Epilogue,  spoken  by- 
the  attendant  Spirit. 

976-979.  The  opening  lines  of  this  passage  suggest  the  song 
of  Ariel  in  The  Tempest,  Act  V.  Sc.  i.  88-94.  A  large  part  of 
the  Epilogue  was  adapted  by  Lawes  and  used  for  a  prologue,  in 
the  actual  production  of  the  masque. 

1021,  Spheary  chime  =  the  planets.  There  are  very  many 
allusions  in  Shakespeare  and  Milton  to  the  "  music  of  the  spheres,* 
a  harmony  supposed  to  be  given  out  by  revolution  of  the  spheres 
by  which  the  planets  were  borne  alone:. 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTES.  107 


Lycidas. 

In  metre  and  rhyme  the  poem  is  of  unusual  form.  The  pen- 
tameters are  here  and  there  varied  by  a  trimeter  or  a  tetrameter, 
and  the  rhyming  is  extremely  irregular.  There  are,  moreover, 
a  considerable  number  of  verses  which  have  no  rhyming  equiv- 
alent. How  effectively  Milton  employs  this  flexible  measure 
may  be  easily  seen  by  a  little  examination  of  the  first  fourteen 
lines  of  the  poem.  The  first  and  thirteenth  lines  are  blank  ;  the 
second  line  ends  in  a  sound  which  is  repeated  five  times  at  irreg- 
ular intervals  ;  and  three  other  rhyme-words,  "  crude  "  "  due," 
and  "  prime,"  are  matched  in  subsequent  verses. 

1-5.  Yet  once  more,  etc.  After  writing  U Allegro  and  11 
Penoeroso,  Milton  is  supposed  to  have  determined  to  write  no 
more  poetry  till  his  powers  should  have  fully  matured.  Some 
years  later,  however,  he  had  been  persuaded  to  write  the  masque 
of  Comus,  to  accompany  the  music  of  his  friend  Lawes  ;  and 
now,  *^  yet  once  more,"  the  death  of  his  friend  King  forces  him 
to  sing  "  before  the  mellowing  year  ; "  that  is  before  his  powers 
have  fairly  ripened.  Wreaths  of  laurel,  myrtle,  and  ivy  were  the 
rewards  of  poetic  skill  among  the  Greeks  ;  hence  the  figure. 

23-36.  For  -we  were  nurst,  etc.  Here  the  poem  really  be- 
gins with  a  reminiscence  of  the  intimacy  which  had  existed 
between  the  young  poets.  By  Fauns  and  Satyrs  are  probably 
meant  the  undergraduates  who  were  pleased  with  the  versifying 
of  the  two  friends. 

37-49.  After  recalling  his  former  happiness,  the  poet  begins 
his  lament  with  a  simple  expression  of  his  grief  and  sense  of 
loss. 

50-63.  These  lines  express  the  feeling  of  wonder  which  often 
accompanies  a  first  grief.  "  How  could  this  have  been  per- 
mitted ?"  the  immediate  answer  being,  "  Death  asks  no  permis- 
sion ;  it  comes  to  all." 

64-76.  Here  grief  verges  upon  despair,  and  the  question 
arises,  "  Wliat  is  the  use  of  it  all  ?  Why,  if  a  young  life  of  such, 
promise  may  be  cut  off  before  it  has  had  a  chance  of  fulfilment 
—  why  is  it  worth  while  to  try  for  excellence  ?  "  This  doubt  can 
be  only  momentary  in  a  healthy  mind  like  Milton's  ;  in  the  follow- 
ing lines  (76-84)  it  is  put  to  flight  by  the  reflection  that  fame 


108  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTES. 

worth  having  (that  is,  real  success)  depends  not  upon  reputa* 
tion,  but  upon  merit. 

67-69.  As  others  use.  Probably  Milton  is  still  speaking  of 
the  poetic  art.  The  great  Elizabethans  were  all  dead  ;  Beu 
Jonson,  the  last  of  them,  died  in  the  year  1637,  when  this  poem 
was  written.  Poetry  had  now  become  a  mere  fashionable  accom- 
plishment, and  the  best  that  it  could  do  was  to  produce  dainty 
love-songs. 

87.  That  strain  I  heard,  etc.  The  poet  confesses  that  the 
passage  about  Fame  is  not  in  the  pure  pastoral  mood  ;  to  which 
he  recalls  himself  by  invoking  the  streams  which  were  supposed 
to  be  haunted  by  the  muses  of  Greek  and  Roman  pastoral 
poetry. 

88-110.  In  these  lines  Milton  enumerates  the  chief  mourners 
for  Lycidas  ;  that  is,  he  suggests  the  different  ways  in  which 
King  is  a  loss  to  the  world,  —  1.  Nature  (90-102  ; )  2.  The 
University,  or  the  intellectual  world  (103-107)  ;  3.  The 
Church,  or  the  religious  world  (108-112). 

101.  Built  in  th'  eclipse.  Compare  Macbeth,  Act  IV.,  Sc.  i., 
28  ;  Hamlet,  Act  I.  Sc.  i.  117. 

113-131.  The  speech  of  St.  Peter,  expressing  the  concern 
which  Milton  felt  as  to  the  condition  of  the  English  clergy,  is 
a  more  serious  digression  from  the  pastoral  strain,  though  a 
most  interesting  passage  to  students  of  Milton.  The  passage 
df  graceful  description  which  follows  is  not  found  in  the  earliest 
version  of  the  poem,  and  may  have  been  introduced  to  aid  the 
reader  in  recovering  the  pastoral  mood. 

152-164.  To  the  grief  of  loss  is  added  grief  in  not  being  able 
to  pay  the  last  honors  to  the  dead. 

165-185.  After  expressing  the  Christian's  hope  that  Lycidas  is 
now  one  of  the  heavenly  choir,  Milton  suddenly  and  character- 
istically relapses  (183)  into  paganism  (a  merely  literary  pagan- 
ism, of  course,)  by  imagining  Lycidas  the  guardian  spirit  (numen) 
of  the  channel  seas. 

170.  Unexpressive.  Compare  As  You  Like  It,  Act  III.  Sc. 
li.  10. 

"  The  fair,  the  chaste,  and  unexpressive  she." 


2Dl)e  lliijcrsjoe  ilitetature  ^ttits 


MACBETH 


BY 


WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE 


FROM  THE  RIVERSIDE  EDITION  EDITED  BY 
RICHARD  GRANT  WHITE 


WITH  ADDITIONAL  NOTES 


HELEN  GRAY  CONE 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

Boston :  4  Park  Street ;  New  York  :  85  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago :  378-388  Wabash  Avenue 

^he  C^ilicrjffibe  press  <fl:ambrib0e 


Copyright,  1883  and  1897, 
Bx  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

Ml  rights  reserved^ 


INTRODUCTION. 

For  the  incidents  of  this  grand  tragedy  Shakespeare  went  to 
Holinshed's  Chronicles,  in  which  he  found  all  of  them,  with  the 
principal  personages  and  their  traits  of  character.  His  part  of 
the  work  was  the  weaving  of  two  stories  of  ambition  and  blood 
into  one,  and  the  decoration  of  the  composite  whole  with  his 
matchless  dramatic  and  poetic  style.  As  dramatist  never,  and 
as  poet  rarely,  does  he  rise  above  the  grandeur  and  the  power 
of  the  second  act  of  this  tragedy,  in  which,  for  a  time  that  tries 
our  endurance  with  the  strain,  he  stands  working  with  steady 
nerve  and  even  hand  upon  the  dizzy  apex  of  sublimest  terror. 
Macbeth,  plainly  the  product  of  its  author's  vigorous  maturity, 
yet  contains  a  few  passages  which  are  thin  in  thought  and  weak 
in  words,  and  which  are  not  in  Shakespeare's  style.  George 
Steevens's  discovery,  in  1779,  of  Middleton's  play.  The  Witch,  in 
manuscript,  helps  us  here.  For  in  that  are  found  the  songs 
beginning  "  Come  away  "  and  "  Black  spirits,"  which  the  folio 
briefly  directs  to  be  sung  in  this.  A  comparison  of  the  two  in- 
dicates the  probability  that  Macbeth  was  produced  thus.  Not 
very  long  after  James  I.'s  accession  to  the  throne  of  England 
(in  1604),  it  was  thought  desirable  to  produce  a  play  on  a  Scotch 
subject  ;  and  this  had  to  be  done  in  haste.  The  story  of  Mac- 
beth was  selected.  Shakespeare  perhaps  sketched  the  tragedy, 
and  certainly  wrote  most  of  it  himself  ;  but  he  was  helped  in 
some  of  the  least  important  parts,  particularly  in  the  witches' 
scenes,  by  Thomas  Middleton,  an  inferior  and  younger  dramatist, 
who  may  have  already  written  the  supernatural  scenes  in  his 
Witch,  and  may  also  have  been  the  original  projector  of  this 
play,  which  Shakespeare  took  out  of  his  hands  ;  leaving  him 
most  of  his  supernatural  business  to  work  up  afterwards  into 
his  own  Witch.  This  supposition  affects  only  about  170  lines, 
mostly  short,  and  many  consisting  of  but  two  words.  We  hear 
of  Macbeth  in  1610,  and  not  as  an  old  play.  Shakespeare's  work 
on  it,  therefore,  was  done  between  1605  and  1609.  It  was  first 
printed  in  the  folio  of  1623,  with  not  a  few  important  mutila- 
tions. Its  action  covers  a  period  of  fifteen  years,  —  from  A.  d. 
1039  to  1054.  [On  the  genuineness  of  the  text,  the  relation  of 
the  play  to  history,  and  the  duration  of  the  action,  see,  further. 
Suggestions  for  Special  Study,  pages  99-110.  See  also  Professor 
Simonds's  suggestions  for  the  study  of  Macbeth,  pages  111,  112.] 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


Ddncan,  King  of  Scotland. 

Malcolm,    |  ,  .„  „^^. 
-  '     >  nis  sons. 


generals  of  the  King^s  army. 


'noblemen  of  Scotland. 


DONALBAIN, 

Macbeth, 

Banquo, 

Macduff, 

Lennox, 

Ross, 

Menteith, 

Angus, 

Caithness, 

Fleance,  son  to  Banquo. 

SiWARD,  Earl  of  Northumberland, 
eral  of  the  English  forces. 

Young  SiwAKD,  his  son. 

Seyton,  an   officer  attending  on  Mac- 
beth. 

Boy,  son  to  Macduff, 


gen- 


An  English  Doctor- 
A  Scotch  Doctor. 
A  Soldier. 
A  Porter. 
An  Old  Man. 

Lady  Macbeth. 
Lady  Macduff. 

Gentlewoman  attending  on  Lady  Mat 
beth. 

Hecate. 
Three  Witches. 
Apparitions. 

Lords,  Gentlemen,  Officers,  Soldiers^ 
Murderers,  Attendants,  and  Messer^ 
gers. 


Scenk:  Scotland;  England. 


MACBETH. 


ACT  I. 


Scene  I.    A  desert  place. 

Thunder  and  lightning.     Enter  three  Witches. 

First  Witch,   When  shall  we  three  meet  again 
In  thunder,  lightning,  or  in  rain  ? 

Sec,  Witch,    When  the  hurlyburly  's  done, 
When  the  battle  's  lost  and  won. 

Third  Witch,    That  will  be  ere  the  set  of  sun. 

First  Witch,    Where  the  place  ? 

Sec.  Witch,  Upon  the  heath. 

Third  Witch,   There  to  meet  with  Macbeth. 

First  Witch,    I  come,  GraymalkinI 

Sec,  Witch,    Paddock  calls. 

Third  Witch,   Anon.  lo 

All,   Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair ; 
Hover  through  the  fog  and  filthy  air.  [Exeunt. 

8.  Qraymalkin  :  name  of  the  typical  female  cat,  as  Reynard 
for  fox. 

9.  Paddock  =:  toad.  [The  witches  respond  to  the  summons  of 
their  familiar  spirits,  accustomed  to  take  the  forms  of  cat  and 
toad.] 

10.  [Anon  =  presently  ;  here,  "  I  am  coming  at  once."] 


^ 


8  MACBETH.  [Act  I. 

Scene  II.     A  camp  near  Forres. 

Alarum  within.    Enter  Duncan,  Malcolm,  Donalbain,  Lennox,  mth 
Attendants,  meeting  a  bleeding  Sergeant. 

Dun.    What  bloody  man  is  that?     He  can  report, 
As  seemeth  by  liis  plight,  of  the  revolt 
The  newest  state. 

Mai.  This  is  the  sergeant 

Who  like  a  good  and  hardy  soldier  fought 
'Gainst  my  captivity.     Hail,  brave  friend ! 
Say  to  the  King  the  knowledge  of  the  broil 
As  thou  didst  leave  it. 

Ser,  Doubtful  it  stood ; 

As  two  spent  swimmers,  that  do  cling  together 
And  choke  their  art.     The  merciless  Macdonwald  — 
Worthy  to  be  a  rebel,  for  to  that  w 

The  multiplying  villanies  of  nature 
Do  swarm  upon  him  —  from  the  western  isles 
Of  kerns  and  gallowglasses  is  supplied  ; 
And  fortune,  on  his  damned  quarrel  smiling, 
Show'd  like  a  rebel's  whore  :  but  all 's  too  weak : 
For  brave  Macbeth  —  well  he  deserves  that  name  — 
Disdaining  fortune,  with  his  brandish'd  steel, 
Which  smok'd  with  bloody  execution. 
Like  valour's  minion  carved  out  his  passage 
Till  he  faced  the  slave ;  » 

Which  ne'er  shook  hands,  nor  bade  farewell  to  him, 
Till  he  unseam'd  him  from  the  nave  to  the  chaps, 
And  fix'd  his  head  upon  our  battlements. 

Dun.    O  valiant  cousin !  worthy  gentleman ! 

13.  kerns  and  gallowglasses.  Kerns  were  light-armed 
troops  ;  gallowglasses  wore  mail,  and  used  long  heavy  swords. 

21,  "Which  ne'er  shook  hands  :  a  passage  incurably  cor- 
rupted. If  these  words  were  omitted,  as  they  might  well  be, 
both*sense  and  rhythm  would  be  complete. 


Scene  IL]  MACBETH.  9 

Ser,    As  whence  the  sun  'gins  his  reflection 
Shipwracking  storms  and  direful  thunders  break, 
So  from  that  spring  whence  comfort  seem'd  to  come 
Discomfort  swells.     Mark,  King  of  Scotland,  mark : 
No  sooner  justice  had  with  valour  arm'd 
Compell'd  these  skipping  kerns  to  trust  their  heels,  3( 
But  the  Norweyan  lord  surveying  vantage. 
With  furbish'd  arms  and  new  supplies  of  men 
Began  a  fresh  assault. 

Dun.  Dismay'd  not  this 

Our  captains,  Macbeth  and  Banquo  ? 

Ser.  Yes ; 

As  sparrows  eagles,  or  the  hare  the  lion. 
If  I  say  sooth,  I  must  report  they  were 
As  cannons  overcharged  with  double  cracks ;  so  they 
Doubly  redoubled  strokes  upon  the  foe : 
Except  they  meant  to  bathe  in  reeking  wounds, 
Or  memorize  another  Golgotha,  « 

I  cannot  tell. 
But  I  am  faint,  my  gashes  cry  for  help. 

Dun.    So  well  thy  words  become  thee  as  thy  wounds ; 
They  smack  of  honour  both.     Go  get  him  surgeons. 

[Exit  Sergeant^  attended. 

Who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Ross. 

MaL  The  worthy  thane  of  Eoss. 

37.  cracks  =  loads,  charges  which  when  discharged  make  a 
noise,  or  crack. 

40.  [Memorize  another  Golgotha  =  make  memorable  an- 
other place  of  death,  like  the  Golgotha  of  the  crucifixion.] 

41.  [I  cannot  tell  =r  I  do  not  know  what  to  think,  or  say,  of 
it  ;  an  Elizabethan  colloquialism.] 

45.  thane  =  a  servant  of  the  king  :  an  Anglo-Saxon  title  of 
nobility  next  below  that  of  earl. 


10  MACBETH.  [ActL 

Len.    "What  a  haste  looks  through  his  eyes!     So 
should  he  look 
That  seems  to  speak  things  strange. 

JRoss,  God  save  the  King ! 

Dun.    Whence  cam'st  thou,  worthy  thane  ? 

Hoss.  From  Fife,  great  king ; 

Where  the  Norweyan  banners  flout  the  sky 
And  fan  our  people  cold.     Norway  himself,  5« 

With  terrible  numbers, 
Assisted  by  that  most  disloyal  traitor 
The  thane  of  Cawdor,  began  a  dismal  conflict ; 
Till  that  Bellona's  bridegroom,  lapp'd  in  proof, 
Confronted  him  with  self-comparisons, 
Point  against  point  rebellions,  arm  'gainst  arm, 
Curbing  his  lavish  spirit :  and,  to  conclude. 
The  victory  fell  on  us. 

Dun,  Great  happiness  ! 

Hoss.  That  now 

Sweno,  the  Norways'  king,  craves  composition ; 
Nor  would  we  deign  him  burial  of  his  men  $• 

Till  he  disbursed  at  Saint  Colme's  inch 
Ten  thousand  dollars  to  our  general  use. 

Dun.  No  more  that  thane  of  Cawdor  shall  deceive 
Our  bosom,  interest :  go  pronounce  his  present  death, 
And  with  his  former  title  greet  Macbeth. 

Hoss.    I  '11  see  it  done. 

Dun.  What  he  hath  lost  noble  Macbeth  hath  won. 

[Exeunt. 

54.  [Bellona's  bridegroom :  Macbeth  is  evidently  meant. 
The  mythological  allusion  is  faulty,  unless  the  expression  be 
taken  as  equivalent  to  "  a  very  bridegroom  for  Bellona,  a  hero 
worthy  to  wed  her."] 

55.  [self-comparisons  =  likenesses  of  himself,  counterparts; 
the  meaning  is  brought  out  in  the  next  line.] 


Scene  III.]  MACBETH.  H 

Scene  III.  A  heath  near  Forres, 
Thunder.     Enter  the  three  Witches. 

First  Witch,    Where  hast  thou  been,  sister? 

Sec.  Witch,    Killing  swine. 

Third  Witch,    Sister,  where  thou  ? 

First  Witch,    A  sailor's  wife  had  chestnuts  in  her 
lap. 
And  munch'd,  and  munch'd,  and  munch'd  :  —  "  Give 

me,"  quoth  I ; 
"  Aroint  thee,  witch !  "  the  rump-fed  ronyon  cries. 
Her  husband 's  to  Aleppo  gone,  master  o'  the  Tiger : 
But  in  a  sieve  I  '11  thither  sail, 
And,  like  a  rat  without  a  tail, 
I'Udo,  I'lldo,  andl'lldo.  10 

Sec,  Witch,    I  '11  give  thee  a  wind. 

First  Witch.    Thou  'rt  kind. 

Third  Witch,    And  I  another. 

First  Witch,    I  myself  have  all  the  other, 
And  the  very  ports  they  blow, 
All  the  quarters  that  they  know 
I'  th'  shipman's  card. 
I  will  drain  him  dry  as  hay : 
Sleep  shall  neither  night  nor  day 
Hang  upon  his  pent-house  lid  ;  20 

6.  Aroint  =  (manifestly)  avaunt,  begone ;  but  what  the  word 
really  means,  and  whence  it  came,  no  one  knows.  See  it  again, 
King  Lear,  Act  III.  Sc.  4,  line  149,  but  nowhere  else,  I  believe, 
in  all  English  literature,  rump-fed  =  coarsely,  grossly  fed  ; 
ronyon  is  plainly  an  Eng.  form  of  the  Fr.  rognon  =  a  scabby, 
mangy  person. 

9.  [Steevens  cites  the  old  superstition,  that  "  though  a  witch 
could  assume  the  form  of  any  animal  she  pleased,  the  tail  would 
still  be  wanting."] 

17.  shipman's  card  =  sailor's  chart. 


12  MACBETH.  [Act  I. 

He  shall  live  a  man  forbid : 
"Weary  se'nnights  nine  times  nine 
Shall  he  dwindle,  peak  and  pine : 
Though  his  bark  cannot  be  lost, 
Yet  it  shall  be  tempest-tost. 
Look  what  I  have. 

Sec.  Witch,    Show  me,  show  me. 

First  Witch.    Here  I  have  a  pilot's  thumb, 
Wreck'd  as  homeward  he  did  come.  {Drums  within. 

Third  Witch.    A  drum,  a  drum !  ao 

Macbeth  doth  come. 

All.    The  weird  sisters,  hand  in  hand, 
Posters  of  the  sea  and  land, 
Thus  do  go  about,  about : 
Thrice  to  thine  and  thrice  to  mine 
And  thrice  again,  to  make  up  nine. 
Peace !  the  charm 's  wound  up. 

Enter  Macbeth  and  Banquo. 

Mach.    So  foul  and  fair  a  day  I  have  not  seen. 
Ban.   How  far  is  't  call'd  to  Forres?     What  are 

these 
So  wither' d  and  so  wild  in  their  attire,  « 

That  look  not  like  th'  inhabitants  o'  th'  earth. 
And  yet  are  on  't  ?     Live  you  ?  or  are  you  aught 
That  man  may  question  ?     You  seem  to  understand 

me. 
By  each  at  once  her  chappy  finger  laying 
Upon  her  skinny  lips :  you  should  be  women, 

32.  The  weird  sisters  =  supposed  supernatural  creatures 
like  the  Fates,  controlling  destiny.  Their  name  is  pronounced 
wayrd  (ei  as  in  weight),  and  is  spelled  weyward  in  the  folio. 

39.  Forres  =  a  town  on  Moray  Firth,  about  twenty-five  miles 
from  Inverness. 


Scene  III.]  MACBETH.  •  \Z 

And  yet  your  beards  forbid  me  to  interpret 
That  you  are  so. 

Macb.  Speak,  if  you  can  :  what  are  you  ? 

First  Witch,  All  hail,  Macbeth  !  hail  to  thee,  thane 
of  Glamis ! 

Sec.  Witch.   All  hail,  Macbeth !  hail  to  thee,  thane 
of  Cawdor ! 

Third  Witch.   All  hail,  Macbeth  that  shalt  be  king 
hereafter !  50 

Ban.    Good  sir,  why  do  you  start ;  and  seem  to  fear 
Things    that    do    sound    so  fair?  [Jb  the  Witches.'] 

I'  th'  name  of  truth, 
Are  ye  fantastical,  or  that  indeed 
Which  outwardly  ye  show  ?     My  noble  partner 
You  greet  with  present  grace  and  great  prediction 
Of  noble  having  and  of  royal  hope. 
That  he  seems  rapt  withal :  to  me  you  speak  not. 
If  you  can  look  into  the  seeds  of  time. 
And  say  which  grain  will  grow  and  which  will  not, 
Speak  then  to  me,  who  neither  beg  nor  fear  eo 

Your  favours  nor  your  hate. 

First  Witch.    Hail! 

Sec.  Witch,    Hail! 

Third  Witch.    Hail! 

First  Witch.   Lesser  than  Macbeth,  and  greater. 

Sec.  Witch.    Not  so  happy,  yet  much  happier. 

Third   Witch.    Thou  shalt  get  kings,  though  thou 
be  none : 
So  all  hail,  Macbeth  and  Banquo  ! 

First  Witch.    Banquo  and  Macbeth,  all  hail ! 

Macb.     Stay,    you     imperfect    speakers,    tell    me 
more  :  70 

48.  All  hail.    These  three  salutations  are  almost  literal  tran- 
scripts from  Ilolinshed. 


14  •  MACBETH.  [ActL 

By  SineFs  death  I  know  I  am  thane  of  Glaniis ; 

But  how  of  Cawdor  ?  the  thane  of  Cawdor  lives, 

A  prosperous  gentleman  ;  and  to  be  king 

Stands  not  within  the  prospect  of  belief, 

No  more  than  to  be  Cawdor.     Say  from  whence 

You  owe  this  strange  intelligence  ?  or  why 

Upon  this  blasted  heath  you  stop  our  way 

With  such  prophetic  greeting  ?     Speak,  I  charge  you, 

[  Witches  vanish. 

Ban.    The  earth  hath  bubbles,  as  the  water  has. 
And   these    are    of   them.      Whither   are   they   van- 
ish'd  ?  80 

Mach.    Into   the   air;   and   what   seem'd   corporal 
melted 
As  breath  into  the  wind.     Would  they  had  stay'd ! 
Ban.     Were   such   things   here   as   we   do   speak 
about  ? 
Or  have  we  eaten  on  the  insane  root 
That  takes  the  reason  prisoner  ? 

Mach.    Your  children  shall  be  kings. 
Ban.  You  shall  be  king. 

Mach.    And  thane  of  Cawdor  too  :  went  it  not  so  ? 
Ban.   To   the  selfsame   tune  and  words.     Who's 
here? 

Enter  Koss  and  Angus. 

Hoss.   The  King  hath  happily  received,  Macbeth, 
The  news  of  thy  success  ;  and  when  he  reads  90 

Thy  personal  venture  in  the  rebels'  fight, 
His  wonders  and  his  praises  do  contend 

71.  Sinel  was  the  name  of  Macbeth's  father. 

84.  eaten  on  =  eaten  of.  insane  root  =  root  which  makes 
insanity  ;  henbane,  or  perhaps  hemlock,  if  we  must  read  like 
herb  doctors. 


Scene  III.]  MA  CBE  TH.  16 

Whicli  should  be  thine  or  his :  silenced  with  that, 
In  viewing  o'er  the  rest  o'  th'  selfsame  day, 
He  finds  thee  in  the  stout  Norweyan  ranks, 
Nothing  afeard  of  what  thyself  didst  make, 
Strange  images  of  death.  As  thick  as  tale 
Came  post  with  post ;  and  every  one  did  bear 
Thy  praises  in  his  kingdom's  great  defence. 
And  pour'd  them  down  before  him. 

Ang.  We  are  sent    loa 

To  give  thee  from  our  royal  master  thanks ; 
Only  to  herald  thee  into  his  sight. 
Not  pay  thee. 

Ross,    And,  for  an  earnest  of  a  greater  honour. 
He  bade  me,  from  him,  call  thee  thane  of  Cawdor : 
In  which  addition,  hail,  most  worthy  thane ! 
For  it  is  thine. 

Ban.    [^Aside.~\  What,  can  the  Devil  speak  true  ? 

Macb.    The  thane  of   Cawdor  lives:  why  do  you 
dress  me 
In  borrow'd  robes  ? 

Ang.  Who  was  the  thane  lives  yet ; 

But  under  heavy  judgement  bears  that  life  ii« 

Which  he  deserves  to  lose.     Whether  he  was  combined 
With  those  of  Norway,  or  did  line  the  rebel 
With  hidden  help  and  vantage,  or  that  with  both 

97.  as  thick  as  tale  =  as  fast  as  they  could  be  told,  or 
counted  ;  a  somewhat  forced  comparison,  but  suited  to  the  style 
of  this  play.  The  reading  "  As  thick  as  hail "  is  obvious  and 
plausible. 

106.  addition  =  title,  something  added  to  the  mere  name; 
«  a  handle." 

107.  Devil  :  pronounced  commonly,  I  am  sure,  in  England  as 
Vfstii  as  in  Scotland,  as  a  monosyllable,  deel,  in  Shakespeard's 
fcime. 

112.  line  =  strengthen. 


16  MA  CBE  TH.  [Act  L 

He  laboured  in  his  country's  wrack,  I  know  not ; 
But  treasons  capital,  confess'd  and  proved. 
Have  overthrown  him. 

Macb.       \^Aside.~\     Glamis,  and  thane  of  Cawdor! 
The   greatest   is   behind.     [^To    Boss   and  Angus,'\ 

Thanks  for  your  pains. 
[Tb  Banr\  Do  you  not  hope  your  children  shall  be 

kings. 
When  those  that  gave  the  thane  of  Cawdor  to  me 
Promised  no  less  to  them  ? 

Ban.  That  trusted  home        i2» 

Might  yet  enkindle  you.  unto  the  crown, 
Besides  the  thane  of  Cawdor.     But  'tis  strange: 
And  oftentimes,  to  win  us  to  our  harm, 
The  instruments,  of  darkness  tell  us  truths, 
Win  us  with  honest  trifles,  to  betray  's 
In  deepest  consequence. 
Cousins,  a  word,  I  pray  you. 

Macb.  \^Aside.'\     Two  truths  are  told, 

As  happy  prologues  to  the  swelling  act 
Of  the  imperial  theme.  —  I  thank  you,  gentlemen. 
\^Asidc,'\    This  supernatural  soliciting  iM 

Cannot  be  ill,  cannot  be  good  :  if  ill, 
Why  hath  it  given  me  earnest  of  success, 
Commencing  in  a  truth  ?  —  I'm  thane  of  Cawdor. 
If  good,  why  do  I  yield  to  ttiat  suggestion 
Whose  horrid  image  doth  unfix  my  hair 
And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs, 
Against  the  use  of  nature  ?     Present  fears 
Are  less  than  horrible  imaginings  :     . 
My  thought,  whose  murther  yet  is  but  fantastical. 
Shakes  so  my  single  state  of  man  that  function  140 

139.  [Fantastical  =  imaginary.] 

140-142.    Shakes  so  .  .  .  what  is  not  :  a  passage  highly 


Scene  III.]  MACBETH.  17 

Is  smother'd  in  surmise,  and  nothing  is 
But  what  is  not. 

Ba?i.  Look,  how  our  partner 's  rapt. 

Macb.    [^Aside.']    If  chance  wiU  have  me  king,  why, 
chance  may  crown  me, 
Without  my  stir. 

Ban,  New  honours  come  upon  him. 

Like  our  strange  garments,  cleave  not  to  their  mould 
But  with  the  aid  of  use. 

Macb.  \^Aside.']    Come  what  come  may, 

Time  and  the  hour  runs  through  the  roughest  day. 

Ban,    Worthy  Macbeth,  we  stay  upon  your  leisure. 

Macb.    Give  me  your  favour:  my  dull  brain  was 
wrought  • 

With  things  forgotten.    Kind  gentlemen,  your  pains  i50 
Are  register'd  where  every  day  I  turn 
The  leaf  to  read  them.     Let  us  toward  the  King. 
Think  upon  what  hath  chanced,  and,  at  more  time, 
The  interim  having  weigh'd  it,  let  us  speak 
Our  free  hearts  each  to  other. 

Ban.  Very  gladly. 

Macb.    Till  then,  enough.     Come,  friends.     [Exeunt. 

characteristic  of  the  vague,  far-reaching  style  of  this  tragedy. 
Bingle  =  weak ;  function  =z  ability  to  act,  which  is  represented 
as  smothered  in  doubt  and  apprehension;  so  that  nothing  seems 
to  be  but  that  which  cannot  be. 

147.  Time  and  the  hour:  equivalent  to  "time  and  tide," 
m  which  "  tide  "  does  not  mean  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  sea,  but 
opportunity,  time  suitable.  [The  Clarendon  Press  editors  have 
the  interesting  comment,  "  *  Time  and  the  hour,'  in  the  sense  of 
time  with  its  successive  incidents,  or  in  its  measured  course, 
forms  but  one  idea.  The  expression  seems  to  have  been  prover- 
bial. Another  form  of  it  is  :  *  Be  the  day  weary,  be  the  day 
^ong.  At  length  it  ringeth  to  evensong.' "] 


18  MACBETH.  [ActL 

Scene   IV.     Forres.     The  palace. 

Flourish.    Enter  Duncan,  Malcolm,  Donalbain,  Lennox,  and 
Attendants. 

Dun.    Is  execution  done  on  Cawdor  ?     Are  not 
Those  in  commission  yet  return'd  ? 

3Ial.  My  liege. 

They  are  not  yet  come  back.     But  I  have  spoke 
With  one  that  saw  him  die :  who  did  report 
That  very  frankly  he  confess 'd  his  treasons, 
Implored  your  highness'  pardon  and  set  forth 
A  deep  repentance  :  nothing  in  his  life 
Became  him  like  the  leWing  it ;  he  died 
As  one  that  Jiad  been  studied  in  his  death 
To  throw  away  the  dearest  thing  he  owed,  » 

As  't  were  a  careless  trifle. 

Dun.  There  's  no  art 

To  find  the  mind's  construction  in  the  face  : 
He  was  a  gentleman  on  whom  I  built 
An  absolute  trust. 

Enter  Macbeth,  Banquo,  Eoss,  and  Angus. 
O  worthiest  cousin ! 
The  sin  of  my  ingratitude  even  now 
Was  heavy  on  me  :  thou  art  so  far  before 
That  swiftest  wing  of  recompense  is  slow 
To  overtake  thee.     Would  thou  hadst  less  deserved? 
That  the  proportion  both  of  thanks  and  payment 
Might  have  been  mine  !  only  I  have  left  to  say,        20 
More  is  thy  due  than  more  than  all  can  pay. 

Mach.   The  service  and  the  loyalty  I  owe, 
In  doing  it,  pays  itself.     Your  highness'  part 
Is  to  receive  our  duties  ;  and  our  duties 
Are  to  your  throne  and  state  children  and  servants, 
10.  owed  =  owned.    {Compare  Sc.  3,  line  76.] 


Scene  IV.]  MA  CBETH.  19 

Which  do  but  what  they  should,  by  doing  every  thing 
Safe  toward  your  love  and  honour. 

Dun.  Welcome  hither: 

I  have  begun  to  plant  thee,  and  will  labour 
To  make  thee  full  of  growing.     Noble  Banquo, 
That  hast  no  less  deserved,  nor  must  be  known  so 

No  less  to  have  done  so,  let  me  infold  thee 
And  hold  thee  to  my  heart. 

Ban.  There  if  I  grow, 

The  harvest  is  your  own. 

Dun.  My  plenteous  joys, 

Wanton  in  fulness,  seek  to  hide  themselves 
In  drops  of  sorrow.     Sons,  kinsmen,  thanes. 
And  you  whose  places  are  the  nearest,  know 
We  will  establish  our  estate  upon 
Our  eldest,  Malcolm,  w^hom  we  name  hereafter 
The  Prince  of  Cumberland  ;  which  honour  must 
Not  unaccompanied  invest  him  only,  49' 

But  signs  of  nobleness,  like  stars,  shall  shine 
On  all  deservers.  From  hence  to  Inverness, 
And  bind  us  further  to  you. 

Macb.    The  rest  is  labour,  which  is  not  used  for  you; 
I  '11  be  myself  the  harbinger  and  make  joyful 
The  hearing  of  my  wife  with  your  approach ; 
So  humbly  take  my  leave. 

Dun.  My  worthy  Cawdor  I 

Macb.    \^Aside.'\    The  Prince  of  Cumberland !  that 
is  a  step 
On  which  I  must  fall  down,  or  else  o'erleap, 

34.  [Wanton  in  fulness  =  running  to  excess  in  their  abun- 
dance.] 

39.  The  Prince  of  Cumberland.  The  crown  of  Scotland  was 
not  at  this  time  strictly  hereditary,  and  when  the  successor  to  the 
peigning  king  was  named  he  was  made  Prince  of  Cumberland. 


20  MACBETH.  [ActL 

For  in  my  way  it  lies.     Stars,  hide  your  fires ;  so 

Let  not  light  see  my  black  and  deep  desires : 
The  eye  wink  at  the  hand  ;  yet  let  that  be, 
Which  the  e^/e  fears,  when  it  is  done,  to  see.  [Exit 

Dun.    True,  worthy  Banquo  ;  he  is  full  so  valiant, 
And  in  his  commendations  I  am  fed  ; 
It  is  a  banquet  to  me.     Let 's  after  him, 
Whose  care  is  gone  before  to  bid  us  welcome : 

It  is  a  peerless  kinsman.  [Flourish.   Exeunt 

Scene  V.     Inverness.     Macbeth's  castle. 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth,  reading  a  letter. 

Lady  M.  They  met  me  in  the  day  of  success:  and  I  have  learned 
by  the  perfectest  report,  they  have  more  in  them  than  mortal 
knowledge.  When  I  burned  in  desire  to  question  them  further, 
they  made  themselves  air,  into  which  they  vanished.  Whiles  I 
stood  rapt  in  the  wonder  of  it,  came  missives  from  the  King, 
who  all-hailed  me  "Thane  of  Cawdor;"  by  which  title,  before, 
these  weird  sisters  saluted  me,  and  referred  me  to  the  coming  on 
of  time,  with  "  Hail,  king  that  shalt  be  !  "  This  have  I  thought 
good  to  deliver  thee,  my  dearest  partner  of  greatness,  that  thou 
mightst  not  lose  the  dues  of  rejoicing,  by  being  ignorant  of  whafc 
greatness  is  promised  thee.    Lay  it  to  thy  heart,  and  farewell.    11 

Glamis  thou  art,  and  Cawdor  ;  and  shalt  be 
What  thou  art  promised  :  yet  do  I  fear  thy  nature ; 
It  is  too  full  o'  th'  milk  of  human  kindness 
To  catch  the  nearest  way  :  thou  wouldst  be  great. 
Art  not  without  ambition,  but  without 

54.  True,  worthy  Banquo.  Duncan's  speech  is  the  continua- 
tion of  an  unheard  talk  with  Banquo  about  Macbeth  while  the 
latter  reveals  to  us  his  awakened  ambition  and  foreshadows  the 
crime. 

Scene  V.  Enter  Lady  Macbeth.  In  the  folio,  even  after 
Macbeth  is  king,  she  is  called  merely  "  the  lady,"  or  "  Macbeth's 
lady  "  or  "  wife."  The  title  generally  given  her,  however,  seems 
happily  chosen. 

5.  [Missives  =  messengers.] 


Scene  v.]  MACBETH.  21 

The  illness  should  attend  it :  what  thou  wouldst  highly, 
That  wouldst  thou  holily  ;  wouldst  not  play  false, 
And  yet  wouldst  wrongly  win :  thou  'dst  have,  great 

Glamis, 
That  which  cries  "  Thus  thou  must  do,  if  thou  have 

it ;  "  20 

And  that  which  rather  thou  dost  fear  to  do 
Than  wishest  should  be  undone.     Hie  thee  hither. 
That  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  thine  ear ; 
And  chastise  with  the  valour  of  my  tongue 
All  that  impedes  thee  from  the  golden  round, 
Which  fate  and  metaphysical  aid  doth  seem 
To  have  thee  crown'd  withal. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

What  is  your  tidings  ? 

Mess,    The  King  comes  here  to-night. 

Lady  3L  Thou  'rt  mad  to  say  it : 

Is  not  thy  master  with  him  ?  who,  were  't  so. 
Would  have  inform'd  for  preparation.  so 

Mess.    So    please    you,    it  is    true:    our    thane   is 
coming : 
One  of  my  fellows  had  the  speed  of  him. 
Who,  almost  dead  for  breath,  had  scarcely  more 
Than  would  make  up  his  message. 

Lady  M.  Give  him  tending  ; 

He  brings  great  news.  \Exit  Messenger. 

The  raven  himself  is  hoarse 
That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 
Under  my  battlements.     Come,  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts,  unsex  me  here, 
And  fill  me  from  the  crown  to  the  toe  top-full 
Of  direst  cruelty  I  make  thick  my  blood ;  « 

17.  illness  =  evil  nature. 

26.  metaphysical  =  more  than  physical,  supernatx^.raL 


22  MACBETH.  [Act! 

Stop  up  the  access  and  passage  to  remorse, 

That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 

Shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  peace  between 

The  effect  and  it !     Come  to  my  woman's  breasts^ 

And  take  my  milk  for  gall,  you  murth'ring  ministers, 

Wherever  in  your  sightless  substances 

You  wait  on  nature's  mischief  !     Come,  thick  night, 

And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell, 

That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes. 

Nor  heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark,     5« 

To  cry  "Hold,  hold!" 

Enter  Macbeth. 

.    Great  Glamis !  worthy  Cawdor  I 
Greater  than  both,  by  the  all-hail  hereafter ! 
Thy  letters  have  transported  me  beyond 
This  ignorant  present,  and  I  feel  now 
The  future  in  the  instant. 

Mach,  My  dearest  love, 

Duncan  comes  here  to-night. 

Lady  M,  And  when  goes  hence  ? 

Macb.    To-morrow,  as  he  purposes. 

Lady  M.  O,  never 

Shall  sun  that  morrow  see ! 
Your  face,  my  thane,  is  as  a  book  where  men 
May  read  strange  matters.     To  beguile  the  time,       so 

43.  [Knight  points  out  that  "  if  fear,  compassion,  or  any  other 
compunctious  visitings,  stand  between  a  cruel  purpose  and  its 
realization,  they  may  be  said  to  keep  peace  between  them,  as 
one  who  interferes  between  a  violent  man  and  the  object  of  his 
wrath  keeps  peace."] 

45.  take  my  milk  for  gall  ::=  change  my  milk  for  gall; 
"  unsex  me." 

54.  [Feel  is  a  dissyllable.] 

60.  [The  time:  as  Delius  (quoted  by  Dr.  Furness)  has 
noted,  "  time  with  the  definite  article  means  in  Shakespeare  the 


Scene  VL]  MACBETH.  23 

Look  like  the  time  ;  bear  welcome  in  your  eye, 
Your   hand,   your   tongue :    look   like   the    innocent 

flower, 
But  be  the  serpent  under  't.     He  that 's  coming 
Must  be  provided  for :  and  you  shall  put 
This  night's  great  business  into  my  dispatch ; 
Which  shall  to  all  our  nights  and  days  to  come 
Give  solely  sovereign  sway  and  masterdom. 

Macb.    We  will  speak  further. 

Lady  M,  Only  look  up  clear ; 

To  alter  favour  ever  is  to  fear : 
Leave  all  the  rest  to  me.  [Exeunt. 


Scene   VI.   Before  Macbeth's  castle. 

Hautboys  and  torches.     Enter  Duncan,  Malcolm,  Donalbain,  Ban- 
quo,  Lennox,  Macduff,  Ross,  Angus,  and  Attendants. 

Dun.   This  castle  hath  a  pleasant  seat ;  the  air 
Nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself 
Unto  our  gentle  senses. 

Ban.  This  guest  of  summer, 

The  temple-haunting  martlet,  does  approve. 
By  his  loved  masrnry,  that  the  heaven's  breath 
Smells  wooingly  here  :  no  jutty,  frieze. 
Buttress,  nor  coign  of  vantage,  but  this  bird 
Hath  made  his  pendent  bed  and  procreant  cradle : 

present  time."  Here  the  sense  seems  to  be,  "  to  beguile  those 
around  you  at  the  present  time,  assume  an  appearance  appro- 
priate to  the  present  time."] 

69.  [To  alter  favour  z=.  to  change  countenance.  Compare  As 
You  Like  It,  Act  V.  Sc.  4,  line  27  ;  and  Juliuo  Coesar  Act  I.  So. 
2,  line  91.] 

5.  masonry.  The  martlet,  or  martin,  builds  a  nest  of  mud 
•4gainst  walls. 

7.  coign  of  vantage  :  a  large  phrase  for  convenient  corner. 


24  MACBETH.-  [Act  I. 

Where  they  most  breed  and  haunt,  I  have  observed, 
The  air  is  delicate. 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Dun.  See,  see,  our  honour'd  hostess !  ic- 

The  love  that  follows  us  sometime  is  our  trouble, 
Which  still  we  thank  as  love.     Herein  I  teach  you 
How  you  shall  bid  God  'ild  us  for  your  pains. 
And  thank  us  for  your  trouble. 

Lady  M.  All  our  service 

In  every  point  twice  done  and  then  done  double 
Were  poor  and  single  business  to  contend 
Against  those  honours  deep  and  broad  wherewith 
Your  majesty  loads  our  house  :  for  those  of  old, 
And  the  late  dignities  heap'd  up  to  them, 
We  rest  your  hermits. 

Dun,  Where  's  the  thane  of  Cawdor  ?     tx 

We  coursed  him  at  the  heels,  and  had  a  purpose 
To  be  his  purveyor  :  but  he  rides  well ; 
And  his  great  love,  sharp  as  his  spur,  hath  holp  him 
To  his  home  before  us.     Fair  and  noble  hostess. 
We  are  your  guest  to-night. 

Lady  M,  Your  servants  ever 

Have  theirs,  themselves  and  what  is  theirs,  in  compt, 

13.  God  'ild  =  God  yield,  God  bless. 

16.  [Single  business :  see  Sc.  3,  line  140.  Mr.  White  else- 
where remarks  that  "  there  is  a  whimsical  likeness  and  logical 
connection  between  this  phrase  and  one  which  has  lately  come 
into  vulgar  vogue,  '  a  one-horse  affair,'  etc."] 

20.  your  hermits  =  those  who  pray  for  you. 

22.  [Purveyor  :  here  accented  on  the  first  syllable,  and  equiv- 
alent in  meaning  to  "  forerunner,"  in  a  general  sense  ;  as  har- 
binger is  used  in  Sc.  4,  line  45.  Look  up  the  literal  meaning  in 
each  case.] 

26.  [Have  ...  in  compt  =  hold  in  trust,  as  things  foi 
which  they  are  accountable.] 


i 


Scene  VII.]  MACBETH.  25 

To  make  their  audit  at  your  highness'  pleasure, 
Still  to  return  your  own. 

Dun.  Give  me  your  hand 

Conduct  me  to  mine  host :  we  love  him  highly, 
And  shall  continue  our  graces  towards  him.  3o 

By  your  leave,  hostess.  [Kissing  her.   Exeunt, 

Scene  VII.  Corridor  in  Macbeth's  castle. 

Hautboys  and  torches.     Enter  a  Sewer,  and  divers  Servants  with  dishes 
and  service,  and  pass  over  the  stage.     Then  enter  Macbeth. 

Macb.    If  it  were  done  when  't  is  done,  then  't  were 
well. 
It  were  done  quickly  if  th'  assassination 
Could  trammel  up  the  consequence,  and  catch 
With  his  surcease  success  ;  that  but  this  blow 
Might  be  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  here, 
But  here,  upon  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time, 
AVe  'd  jump  the  life  to  come.     But  in  these  cases 
We  still  have  judgement  here  ;  that  we  but  teach 
Bloody  instructions,  which,  being  taught,  return 

Scene  VII.  Enter  a  Se-wer.  At  first  a  sewer  was  a  taster, 
to  insure  protection  against  poison;  afterwards  a  sort  of  head 
groom  of  the  kitchen. 

1.  [The  punctuation  here  adopted  by  Mr.  White  is  unusual, 
though  there  is  much  in  its  favor.  The  first  folio  has  a  comma 
after  well,  and  a  colon  after  quickly  ;  modern  editors  drop  the 
comma.  How  does  the  difference  in  punctuation  affect  the 
meaning  ?] 

3.  [trammel  up  =  catch  and  hold  fast,  as  in  a  net.  Trammel, 
noun,  =  a  net.] 

4.  surcease  =  end.  [His  is  the  usual  possessive  in  Shake- 
speare ;  the  pronoun  does  not  necessarily  represent  Duncan,  but 
"  the  assassination."] 

5.  [success:  this  may  possibly  mean,  as  Staunton  suggests, 
« that  which  follows; "  in  that  case,  catch  success  would  be  "  no 
more  than  an  enforcement  of  'trammel  up  the  consequence.'  "] 


2Q  MACBETH.  [ActL 

To  plague  the  inventor ;  this  even-handed  justice       le 

Commends  th'  ingredients  of  our  poison'd  chalice 

To  our  own  lips.     He  's  here  in  double  trust ; 

First,, as  I  am  his  kinsman  and  his  subject, 

Strong  both  against  the  deed  ;  then,  as  his  host, 

Who  should  against  his  murtherer  shut  the  door, 

Not  bear  the  knife  myself.     Besides,  this  Duncan 

Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 

So  clear  in  his  great  office,  that  his  virtues 

Will  plead  like  angels,  trumpet-tongued,  against 

The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking-off  ;  st 

And  pity,  like  a  naked  new-born  babe. 

Striding  the  blast,  or  heaven's  cherubin,  horsed 

Upon  the  sightless  couriers  of  the  air. 

Shall  blow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye, 

That  tears  shall  drown  the  wind.     I  have  no  spur 

To  prick  the  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only 

Vaulting  ambition,  which  o'erleaps  itself 

And  falls  on  th'  other  — 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

How  now  !  what  news  ? 

Lady  M.    He  has  almost  supp'd :    why  have  you 
left  the  chamber?  29 

Mach.   Hath  he  ask'd  for  me  ? 

13.  his  kinsman.     Macbeth  and  Duncan  were  first  cousins. 

22.  cherubin :  so  the  folio  :  altered  in  all  modern  editions 
to  the  Hebrew  plural  cherubim,  a  word  not  used  by  Shakespeare  ; 
and,  moreover,  the  singular,  not  the  plural,  form  is  required. 

23.  [couriers  of  the  air.  Is  it  not  possible  that  Shakespeare 
wrote  "  coursers  "  ?  This  carries  out  the  idea  in  horsed.  It  is 
adopted  by  Warburton  and  several  other  editors.  The  folio 
reads  "Curriors."] 

25.  [Two  metaphors  jostle  in  lines  25-28  ;  first  ambition  is 
a  spur,  then  a  rider.  Read,  temporarily,  "ambition"  after 
**  only,"  and  then  again  in  its  right  place,  and  all  is  clear.] 


Scene  VII.]  MACBETH.  27 

Lady  M.  Know  you  not  he  has  ? 

Macb.    We  will  proceed  no  further  in  this  business : 
He  hath  honour'd  me  of  late ;  and  I  have  bought 
Golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people, 
Which  would  be  worn  now  in  their  newest  gloss, 
Not  cast  aside  so  soon. 

Lady  M,  Was  the  hope  drunk 

Wherein  you  dress'd  yourself?  hath  it  slept  since? 
And  wakes  it  now,  to  look  so  green  and  pale 
At  what  it  did  so  freely  ?     From  this  time 
Such  I  account  thy  love.     Art  thou  afeard 
To  be  the  same  in  thine  own  act  and  valour  40 

As  thou  art  in  desire  ?     Wouldst  thou  have  that 
Which  thou  esteem'st  the  ornament  of  life, 
And  live  a  coward  in  thine  own  esteem. 
Letting  "  I  dare  not "  wait  upon  "  I  would," 
Like  the  poor  cat  i'  th'  adage  ? 

Macb.  Prithee,  peace : 

I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man ; 
Who  dares  do  more  is  none. 

Lady  M.  What  beast  was 't,  then, 

That  made  you  break  this  enterprise  to  me  ? 
When  you  durst  do  it,  then  you  were  a  man  ; 
And,  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would        so 
Be  so  much  more  the  man.     Nor  time  nor  place 
Did  then  adhere,  and  yet  you  would  make  both : 
They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their  fitness  now 
Does  unmake  you.     I  have  given  suck,  and  know  \ 

36.  [dress'd  =  prepared.] 

45.  Like  the  poor  cat.  The  adage  was,  "  The  eat  would 
eat  fish,  and  would  not  wet  her  feet." 

52.  [adhere  r=r  cleave  to  or  consist  with  the  plan,  so  as  to 
make  its  execution  possible.] 

54.  I  have  given  suck.  Not  to  Macbeth's  children.  The 
Lady  Gruach  (that  was  her  name)  was  a  widow  when  Macbeth 
married  her. 


28  MA CBETH.  [Act  I.  Sc.  VIL 

How  tender  't  is  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me : 
I  would,  while  it  was  smiling  in  my  face, 
Have  pluck'd  my  nipple  from  his  boneless  gums, 
And  dash'd  the  brains  out,  had  I  so  sworn  as  you 
Have  done  to  this. 

Mach,  If  we  should  fail? 

Lady  M.  We  fail! 

But  screw  your  courage  to  the  sticking-place,  eo 

And  we  '11  not  fail.     When  Duncan  is  asleep  — 
Whereto  the  rather  shall  his  day's  hard  journey 
Soundly  invite  him  —  his  two  chamberlains 
Will  I  with  wine  and  wassail  so  convince 
That  memory,  the  warder  of  the  brain. 
Shall  be  a  fume,  and  the  receipt  of  reason 
A  limbeck  only  :  when  in  swinish  sleep 
Their  drenched  natures  lie  as  in  a  death, 
What  cannot  you  and  I  perform  upon 
The  unguarded  Duncan  ?  what  not  put  upon  70 

His  spongy  officers,  who  shall  bear  the  guilt 
Of  our  great  quell  ? 

Macb.  Bring  forth  men-children  only  5 

For  thy  undaunted  mettle  should  compose 
Nothing  but  males.     Will  it  not  be  received. 
When  we  have  mark'd  with  blood  those  sleepy  two 
Of  his  own  chamber  and  used  their  very  daggers. 
That  they  have  done  't  ? 

Lady  M.  Who  dares  receive  it  other, 

As  we  shall  make  our  griefs  and  clamour  roar 
Upon  his  death  ? 

60.  [scre-w  your  courage  :  a  metaphor  presumably  taken 
from  the  tuning  of  a  stringed  instrument,  sticking-place  = 
place  where  it  will  remain  fixed.] 

64.  convince  r=:  overcome. 

66.  receipt  ==  receptacle. 

72.  quell  =  to  put  violently  out  of  the  way.  Here,  used  as 
a  noun,  it  is  equivalent  to  deed  of  violence. 


ActIL  Sc.  L]  MACBETH.  29 

Mach,  I  am  settled,  and  bend  up 

Each  corporal  agent  to  this  terrible  feat.  so 

Away,  and  mock  the  time  with  fairest  show  : 
False  face  must  hide  what  the  false  heart  doth  know. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I.     Court  within  Macbeth's  castle* 

Enter  Banquo,  and  Flbance  hearing  a  torch  before  him. 

Ban.   How  goes  the  night,  boy  ? 

Fie.   The  moon  is  down ;    I  have  not  heard  the 
clock. 

Ban.   And  she  goes  down  at  twelve. 

Fie.  I  take  't,  't  is  later,  sir. 

Ban.    Hold,  take  my  sword.     There  's  husbandry 
in  heaven ; 
Their  candles  are  all  out.     Take  thee  that  too. 
A  heavy  summons  lies  like  lead  upon  me. 
And  yet  I  would  not  sleep  :  merciful  powers, 
Restrain  in  me  the  cursed  thoughts  that  nature 
Gives  way  to  in  repose ! 

Enter  Macbeth  and  a  Servant  with  a  torch. 

Give  me  my  sword. 
Who 's  there  ?  lo 

Mach.    A  friend. 

Ban.    What,  sir,  not  yet  at  rest  ?     The   King  's 
a-bed : 
He  hath  been  in  unusual  pleasure,  and 
Sent  forth  great  largess  to  your  offices. 
This  diamond  he  greets  your  wife  withal, 

4.  husbandry  =  thrift,  saving  :  we  still  say  "  husband  your 
means." 


30  MACBETH.  [ActIL 

By  the  name  of  most  kind  hostess ;  and  shut  up 
In  measureless  content. 

Macb,  Being  unprepared, 

Our  will  became  the  servant  to  defect ; 
Which  else  should  free  have  wrought. 

Ban,  All 's  well. 

I  dreamt  last  night  of  the  three  weird  sisters :  20 

To  you  they  have  show'd  some  truth. 

Mach,  I  think  not  of  them : 

Yet,  when  we  can  entreat  an  hour  to  serve. 
We  would  spend  it  in  some  words  upon  that  business, 
If  you  would  grant  the  time. 

Ban,  At  your  kind'st  leisure. 

Macb,  If  you  shall  cleave  to  my  consort,  when 't  is, 
It  shall  make  honour  for  you. 

Ban,  So  I  lose  none 

In  seeking  to  augment  it,  but  still  keep 
My  bosom  f  ranchised  and  allegiance  clear, 
I  shall  be  counselFd. 

Macb,  Good  repose  the  while ! 

Ban,    Thanks,  sir  :  the  like  to  you  !  3« 

[^Exeunt  Banquo  and  Fleance, 

Macb.  Go  bid  thy  mistress,  when  my  drink  is  ready, 
She  strike  upon  the  bell.     Get  thee  to  bed. 

[Exit  Servant. 
Is  this  a  dagger  which  I  see  before  me, 
The  handle  toward  my  hand  ?     Come,  let  me  clutch 

thee. 
I  have  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  still. 

16.  and  shut  up.  This  passage  is  quite  surely  corrupt,  and 
probably  by  the  loss  of  a  line  or  more  before  these  words.  [The 
expression  doubtless  means  "  concluded."] 

25.  my  consort  =  those  who  consort  with  me,  my  party. 
[This  emendation  is  Mr.  White's.  The  first  foho  reads  "  con- 
sent,"] 


Scene!.]  MACBETH.      .  31 

Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 

To  feeling  as  to  sight  ?  or  art  thou  but 

A  dagger  of  the  mind,  a  false  creation, 

Proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed  brain  ? 

I  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  palpable  *o 

As  this  which  now  I  draw. 

Thou  marshall'st  me  the  way  that  I  was  going ; 

And  such  an  instrument  I  was  to  use. 

Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fools  o'  th'  other  senses, 

Or  else  worth  all  the  rest ;  I  see  thee  still. 

And  on  thy  blade  and  dudgeon  gouts  of  blood. 

Which  was  not  so  before.     There  's  no  such  thing ; 

It  is  the  bloody  business  which  informs 

Thus  to  mine  eyes.     Now  o'er  the  one  half-world 

Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse  sa 

The  curtain'd  sleep  ;  now  witchcraft  celebrates 

Pale  Hecate's  offerings,  and  withered  murther, 

Alarum'd  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf, 

Whose  howl 's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy  pace, 

With  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,  towards  his  design 

Moves  like  a  ghost.     Thou  sure  and  firm  set  earth, 

Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for  fear 

Thy  very  stones  prate  of  my  whereabout. 

And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time,  69 

Which  now  suits  with  it.     Whiles  I  threat,  he  lives : 

Words  to  the  heat  of  deeds  too  cold  breath  gives. 

\_A  bell  rings. 
I  go,  and  it  is  done ;  the  bell  invites  me. 


46.  dudgeon  =:  haft,  hilt  ;  the  root  of  boxwood,  of  which  dag- 
ger handles  were  made,  being  called  dudgeon,  or  dudgin.  [gouts 
=  drops.]  • 

50.    [abuse  =  delude.] 

54.  [watch  :  this  evidently  means  the  cry  uttered  by  the 
watchman  at  intervals.] 


32  •       MACBETH.  [Act  II 

Hear  it  not,  Duncan  ;  for  it  is  a  kneil 

That  summons  thee  to  heaven  or  to  hell.  [Exit. 

[Scene    II.] 
Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  M.   That  which  hath  made  them  drunk  hath 
made  me  bold ; 
What  hath  quench'd  them  hath  given  me  fire.    Hark  I 

Peace ! 
It  was  the  owl  that  shriek'd,  the  fatal  bellman, 
Which  gives  the  stern' st  good-night.     He  is  about  it : 
The  doors  are  open  ;  and  the  surfeited  grooms 
Do  mock  their  charge  with  snores:  I  have  drugg'd 

their  possets. 
That  death  and  nature  do  contend  about  them, 
Whether  they  live  or  die. 

Macb,    [  Within.']    Who  's  there  ?  what,  ho  ! 
Lady  M.    Alack,  I  am  afraid  they  have  awaked,    le 
And  't  is  not  done.     The  attempt,  and  not  the  deed, 
Confounds  us.     Hark !  I  laid  their  daggers  ready  ; 
He  could  not  miss  'em.     Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept,  I  had  done  't. 
Enter  Macbeth. 

My  husband ! 

Scene  II.  The  folio  has  here  Scena  Secunda,  and  on  the 
entrance  of  the  Porter  Scena  Tertia.  But  the  proper  effect  of 
this  grand  action  is  lost,  unless  it  is  imagined,  as  Shakespeare 
imagined  it,  as  continuous  and  in  one  spot.  For  convenience' 
sake,  however,  the  old  divisions  are  indicated,  and  the  lines  of 
the  scenes  are  numbered  aftcordingly. 

3.  [bellman :  the  common  bellman  was  usually  sent  to  con- 
demned persons  the  night  before  their  execution;  hence  the 
present  epithet  "  fatal."] 


Scene  IL]  MACBETH.  38 

Macb,   I  have  done  the  deed.     Didst  thou  not  hear 
a  noise  ? 

Lady  M,   I  heard  the  owl  scream  and  the  crickets 
cry. 
Did  not  you  speak  ? 

Mach,  When  ? 

Lady  M.  Now. 

Macb.  As  I  descended  ? 

Lady  M.    Ay. 

Macb.    Hark! 
Who  lies  i'  th'  second  chamber  ? 

Lady  M.  Donalbain.  20 

Macb.    This  is  a  sorry  sight.  ILoohing  on  his  hands. 

Lady  M.    A  foolish  thought,  to  say  a  sorry  sight. 

Macb.    There  's  one  did  laugh  in  's  sleep,  and  one 
cried  "  Murther !  " 
That  they  did  wake  each  other :  I  stood  and  heard 

them : 
But  they  did  say  their  prayers,  and  address'd  them 
Again  to  sleep. 

Lady  M.         There  are  two  lodged  together. 

Macb.   One  cried  "  God  bless  us !  "  and  "  Amen  " 
the  other. 
As  they  had  seen  me  with  these  hangman's  hands, 
Listening  their  fear.  — I  could  not  say  "Amen," 
When  they  did  say  "  God  bless  us  !  " 

Lady  M.  Consider  it  not  so  deeply. 

Macb.     But    wherefore   could    not    I    pronounce 
"  Amen  "  ?  31 

I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  "Amen  '* 
Stuck  in  my  throat. 

Lady  M.  These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 

fiLfter  these  ways ;  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 

Macb*  Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry  "  Sleep  no 
more  I 


84  MA  CBETH.  [Act  TL 

Macbeth  does  murther  sleep,"  —  the  innocent  sleep, 
Sleep  that  knits  up  the  raveird  sleeve  of  care, 
The  death  of  each  day's  life,  sore  labour's  bath, 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  nature's  second  course. 
Chief  nourisher  in  life's  feast,  — 

Lady  M,  What  do  you  mean  ?     40 

Macb,   Still  it  cried  '•  Sleep  no  more  I  "  to  all  the 
house : 
"  Glamis  hath  murther'd  sleep,  and  therefore  Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more  ;  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more." 

Lady  M.    Who   was   it   that   thus   cried  ?     Why, 
worthy  thane. 
You  do  unbend  your  noble  strength,  to  think 
So  brainsickly  of  things.     Go  get  some  water, 
And  wash  this  filthy  witness  from  your  hand. 
Why  did  you  bring  these  daggers  from  the  place  ? 
They  must  lie  there  :  go  carry  them ;  and  smear 
The  sleepy  grooms  with  blood. 

Macb.  I  '11  go  no  more :      s& 

I  am  afraid  to  think  what  I  have  done ; 
Look  on  't  again  I  dare  not. 

Lady  M,  Infirm  of  purpose  I 

Give  me  the  daggers :  the  sleeping  and  the  dead 
Are  but  as  pictures :  't  is  the  eye  of  childhood 
That  fears  a  painted  devil.     If  he  do  bleed, 
I  '11  gild  the  faces  of  the  grooms  withal ; 

For  it  must  seem  their  guilt.  {Exit.    Knocking  within, 

37.  [ravell'd  sleeve  :  this  is  the  folio  reading.  Seward  sug' 
gested  "  sleave,"  which  has  since  been  frequently  adopted.  It 
is  preferred  by  Dr.  Furness.  Sleave  =  coarse,  soft,  unwrought 
«ilk.  (Malone.)  If  this  suggestion  be  accepted,  it  is  necessary 
to  understand  ravell'd  as  meaning  "tangled."  Analyze  the 
metaphor  in  each  of  these  two  readings ;  in  which  case  is  it  more 
illustrative  ?] 


Scene  III.]  MACBETH.  35^ 

Macb.  Whence  is  that  knocking? 

How  is  't  with  me,  when  every  noise  appals  me  ? 
What  hands  are  here  ?  ha !  they  pluck  out  mine  eyes. 
Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood  eo 

Clean  from  my  hand  ?     No,  this  my  hand  will  rather 
The  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine, 
Making  the  green  one  red. 

Be-enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  M.  My  hands  are  of  your  colour ;  but  I  shame 
To  wear  a  heart  so  white.      [^Knocking  within.^     1 

hear  a  knocking 
At  the  south  entry :  retire  we  to  our  chamber ; 
A  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed : 
How  easy  is  it,  then !     Your  constancy 
Hath    left    you    unattended.       \^KnocJcing   witMnJ] 

Hark !  more  knocking. 
Get  on  your  nightgown,  lest  occasion  call  us,  70 

And  show  us  to  be  watchers.     Be  not  lost 
So  poorly  in  your  thoughts. 

Macb.   To   know  my  deed,  'twere  best  not  know 

myself.  [Knocking  within. 

Wake   Duncan   with   thy  knocking !     I  would    thou 

COuldst !  [Exeunt. 

[Scene  IH.] 

Knocking  continued.     Enter  a  Porter. 

Porter.  Here  's  a  knocking  indeed!  If  a  man 
were  porter  of  hell-gate,  he  should  have  old  turning 

62.  [The  multitudinous  seas  :  note  the  hurrying,  crowded 
effect  of  this  epithet,  and  the  deep  sigh  or  moan  that  seems  to 
sound  through  incarnadine.  Both  elements  of  our  noble  lan- 
guage are  valuable  ;  the  Saxon  is  sometimes  overpraised,  at  the 
expense  of  the  Latin.  Try  to  produce  the  effect  of  this  magnifi- 
cent line  with  pure  Saxon  words,     incarnadine  =  to  dye  red.] 

2.  old ;  constantly  used  as  a  term  of  intensification  or  exag* 
geration. 


S6  MACBETH.  [AcTiL 

the  key.  \^K7ioc7dng.']  Knock,  knock,  knock! 
Who  's  there,  i'  th'  name  of  Beelzebub  ?  Here  's  a 
■armer,  that  hang'd  himself  on  the  expectation  of 
plenty :  come  in  time  ;  have  napkins  enow  about  you  ; 
here  you  '11  sweat  for  't.  l^ITiiocking.']  Knock, 
knock!  Who's  there,  in  the  other  devil's  name? 
Faith,  here  's  an  equivocator,  that  could  swear  in  both 
the  scales  against  either  scale ;  who  committed  trea- 
son enough  for  God's  sake,  yet  could  not  equivocate 
to  heaven :  O,  come  in,  equivocator.  \_ICnocking.~\ 
Knock,  knock,  knock !  Who  's  there  ?  Faith,  here 's 
an  English  tailor  come  hither,  for  stealing  out  of  a 
French  hose  :  come  in,  tailor ;  here  you  may  roast 
your  goose.  [^JSjiocking.^  Knock,  knock  ;  never  at 
quiet !  What  are  you  ?  But  this  place  is  too  cold 
for  hell.  I  '11  devil  -  porter  it  no  further :  I  had 
thought  to  have  let  in  some  of  all  professions  that  go 
the  primrose  way  to  the  everlasting  bonfire.  \^ICnock- 
ing.^  Anon,  anon.  I  pray  you,  remember  the  por- 
j^Y^  [Opens  the  gate. 

Enter  Macduff  and  Lennox. 

Macd.    Was  it  so  late,  friend,  ere  you  went  to  bed, 
That  you  do  lie  so  late  ? 

Port.   'Faith,  sir,  we  were  carousing  till  the  second 
cock. 

Macd,    Is  thy  master  stirring  ? 
Enter  Macbeth. 
Our  knocking  has  awaked  him  ;  here  he  comes. 

Len,    Good  morrow,  noble  sir. 

Mach.  Good  morrow,  both. 

Macd,    Is  the  King  stirring,  worthy  thane  ? 

Mach,  Not  yet.  3< 

Macd.    He  did  command  me  to  call  timely  on  him ; 
I  have  almost  slipp'd  the  hour. 


Scene  III.]  MA  CBE  TH.  37 

Macb.  1  '11  bring  you  to  him. 

Macd.    I  know  this  is  a  joyful  trouble  to  you  ; 
But  yet  't  is  one. 

Macb,    The  labour  we  delight  in  physics  pain. 
This  is  the  door. 

Macd,  I  '11  make  so  bold  to  call, 

For  't  is  my  limited  service.  [Exiu 

Len.    Goes  the  King  hence  to-day  ? 

Macb,  He  does  :  he  did  appoint  so. 

I^en,    The  night  has  been  unruly :  where  we  lay, 
Our  chimneys  were  blown  down  ;  and,  as  they  say,    40 
Lamentings  heard  i'  th'  air ;  strange  screams  of  death, 
And  prophesying  with  accents  terrible 
Of  dire  combustion  and  confused  events 
New  hatch'd  to  the  woeful  time :  the  obscure  bird 
Clamour'd  the  livelong  night :  some  say,  the  earth 
Was  feverous  and  did  shake. 

Macb.  'T  was  a  rough  night. 

Len.   My  young  remembrance  cannot  parallel 
A  fellow  to  it. 

Re-enter  Macduff. 
Macd.    O  horror,  horror,  horror  !    Tongue  nor  heart 
Cannot  conceive  nor  name  thee  ! 

^  >  What 's  the  matter  ?   m 

Macd.   Confusion  now  hath  made  his  master-piece  I 
Most  sacrilegious  murther  hath  broke  ope 
The  Lord's  anointed  temple,  and  stole  thence 
The  life  o'  th'  building  ! 

Macb.  What  is 't  you  say  ?  the  life  ? 

Z/en.    Mean  you  his  majesty  ? 

Macd.    Approach  the  chamber,  and  destroy  your 
sight 

37.  [limited  =  appointed.] 


-38  MACBETH.  [ActIL 

With  a  new  Gorgon  :  do  not  bid  me  speak ; 

See,  and  then  speak  yourselves.    [Exeunt  Macbeth  and  Lennox. 

Awake,  awake ! 
King  the  alarum-bell.     Murther  and  treason  3 
Banquo  and  Donalbain  !  Malcolm  !  awake  !  w 

Shake  off  this  downy  sleep,  death's  counterfeit, 
And  look  on  death  itself !  up,  up,  and  see 
The  great  doom's  image  !  Malcolm  !  Banquo ! 
As  from  your  graves  rise  up,  and  walk  like  sprites, 
To  countenance  this  horror !    Ring  the  bell.   [Bell  rings. 
Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  M.    What  's  the  business. 
That  such  a  hideous  trumpet  calls  to  parley 
The  sleepers  of  the  house  ?  speak,  speak  ! 

Macd.  O  gentle  lady, 

'T  is  not  for  you  to  hear  what  I  can  speak : 
The  repetition,  in  a  woman's  ear,  7« 

Would  murther  as  it  fell. 

Enter  Banquo. 

O  Banquo,  Banquo, 
Our  royal  master 's  murther'd ! 

Lady  M.  Woe,  alas  I 

What,  in  our  house? 

Ban.  Too  cruel  any  where. 

Dear  Duff,  I  prithee,  contradict  thyself, 
And  say  it  is  not  so. 

Ee-enter  Macbeth  and  Lennox,  with  Ross. 
Mach.    Had  I  but  died  an  hour  before  this  chance, 
I  had  lived  a  blessed  time  ;  for,  from  this  instant, 
There  's  nothing  serious  in  mortality : 
All  is  but  toys  :  renown  and  grace  is  dead  ; 
The  wine  of  life  is  drawn,  and  the  mere  lees  80 

Is  left  this  vault  to  brae:  of. 


Scene  III.]  MACBETH.  39 

Enter  Malcolm  and  Donalbain. 

Don.    AVhat  is  amiss  ? 

Macb.  You  are,  and  do  not  know 't : 

The  spring,  the  head,  the  fountain  of  your  blood 
Is  stopp'd ;  the  very  source  of  it  is  stopp'd. 

Macd,    Your  royal  father  's  murther'd. 

Mai.  O,  by  whom  ? 

Len.   Those   of   his   chamber,    as    it   seem'd,   had 
done  't : 
Their  hands  and  faces  were  all  badged  with  blood ; 
So  were  their  daggers,  which  unwiped  we  found 
Upon  their  pillows : 

They  stared,  and  were  distracted  ;  no  man's  life         w 
Was  to  be  trusted  with  them. 

Macb.   O,  yet  I  do  repent  me  of  my  fury, 
That  I  did  kill  them. 

Macd.  Wherefore  did  you  so  ? 

Macb.   Who  can  be  wise,  amazed,  temp'rate  and 
furious. 
Loyal  and  neutral,  in  a  moment  ?     No  man  : 
The  expedition  of  my  violent  love 
Outrun  the  pauser,  reason.     Here  lay  Duncan, 
His  silver  skin  laced  with  his  golden  blood ; 
And  his  gash'd  stabs  look'd  like  a  breach  in  nature 
For  ruin's  wasteful  entrance :  there,  the  murtherers, 
Steep'd  in  the  colours  of  their  trade,  their  daggers    loi 
Unmannerly  breech'd  with  gore  :  who  could  refrain, 
That  had  a  heart  to  love,  and  in  that  heart 
Courage  to  make  's  love  known  ? 

Lady  M.  Help  me  hence,  ho ! 

Macd.   Look  to  the  lady. 

87.  [badged  =  wearing  "  murder's  crimson  badge."    (2  Henry 
VI.  Act  III.  Sc.  2.)] 


40  MACBETH.  [ActIL 

Mai.     [Aside  to  Don.^     Why   do   we   hold   our 
tongues, 
That  most  may  claim  this  argument  for  ours  ? 

Don.     l^Aside  to  Mal.'\     What  should  be  spoken 
here,  where  our  fate. 
Hid  in  an  auger-hole,  may  rush,  and  seize  us  ? 
Let 's  away. 
Our  tears  are  not  yet  brew'd. 

Mai.     \_ Aside  to  Don.~\     Nor  our  strong  sorrow  m 
Upon  the  foot  of  motion. 

Ban.  Look  to  the  lady : 

[Lady  Macbeth  is  carried  ouL 

And  when  we  have  our  naked  frailties  hid. 

That  suffer  in  exposure,  let  us  meet, 

And  question  this  most  bloody  piece  of  work. 

To  know  it  further.     Fears  and  scruples  shake  us : 

In  the  great  hand  of  God  I  stand ;  and  thence 

Against  the  undivulged  pretence  I  fight 

Of  treasonous  malice. 

Macd.  And  so  do  I. 

All.  So  aU. 

Macb.    Let 's  briefly  put  on  manly  readiness, 
And  meet  i'  th'  hall  together. 

All.  Well  contented.         i2» 

[Exeunt  all  but  Malcolm  and  Donalbain, 

Mai.   What  will  you  do  ?     Let 's  not  consort  with 
them: 
To  show  an  unfelt  sorrow  is  an  office 
Which  the  false  man  does  easy.     I  '11  to  England. 

Doji.    To  Ireland,  I ;  our  separated  fortune 
Shall  keep  us  both  the  safer :  where  we  are. 
There  's  daggers  in  men's  smiles  :  the  near  in  bloods 
The  nearer  bloody. 

117.  [pretence  =  intention,  purpose.] 


Scene  IV.]  MACBETH.  41 

I 
JfaL  This  murtherous  shaft  that 's  shot 

Hath  not  yet  lighted,  and  our  safest  way- 
Is  to  avoid  the  aim.     Therefore,  to  horse  ; 
And  let  us  not  be  dainty  of  leave-taking,  MC 

But  shift  away  :  there  's  warrant  in  that  theft 
Which  steals  itself,  when  there  's  no  mercy  left. 

[Exeura. 

Scene  II.     Outside  Macbeth's  castle. 

[Scene  IV.,  in  the  folio  of  1623.] 

Enter  Ross  and  an  old  Man. 

Old  M.    Threescore  and  ten  I  can  remember  well : 

Within  the  volume  of  which  time  I  have  seen 

Hours  dreadful   and   things  strange ;  but   this    sore 

night 
Hath  trifled  former  knowings. 

Ross.  Ah,  good  father. 

Thou  seest,  the  heavens,  as  troubled  with  man's  act, 
Threaten  his  bloody  stage  :  by  th'  clock,  't  is  day, 
And  yet  dark  night  strangles  the  travelling  lamp : 
Is 't  night's  predominance,  or  the  day's  shame, 
That  darkness  does  the  face  of  earth  entomb, 
When  living  light  should  kiss  it  ? 

Old  M.  'T  is  unnatural,  lo 

Even  like  the  deed  that 's  done.     On  Tuesday  last, 
A  falcon,  tow'ring  in  her  pride  of  place. 
Was  by  a  mousing  owl  hawk'd  at  and  kill'd. 

Moss.    And  Duncan's  hbrse  —  a  thing  most  strange 

and  certain  — 
7.  strangles  the  travelling  lamp  z=.  obscures  the  sun. 
12.  [tow'ring  .  .  .  place  :  technical  terms  of  falconry,  equiv- 
alent to  "  soaring  (proudly)  to  the  highest  point  of  her  flight.'* 
Why  has  mousing,  in  the  next  line,  a  special  force  ?] 

14.  [horse :  the  folio  has  "  horses."  If  Mr.  White's  conjectvTO 
be  correct,  this  is  the  old  plural,  as  in  Chaucer.]  See  also  Act 
IV.  Sc.  1,  line  140. 


42  MA  CBE  TH.  [Act  II.  Sc.  IV. 

Beauteous  and-  swift,  the  minions  of  their  race, 
Turn'd  wild  in  nature,  broke  their  stalls,  flung  out. 
Contending  'gainst  obedience,  as  they  would  make 
War  with  mankind. 

Old  M.  'T  is  said  they  eat  each  other. 

Hoss.  They  did  so,  to  the  amazement  of  mine  eyes 
That  look'd  upon  't.     Here  comes  the  good  Macduff. 

Enter  Macduff. 

How  goes  the  world,  sir,  now  ? 

Macd.  Why,  see  you  not  ?     21 

Moss,    Is  't  known  who  did  this  more  than  bloody 
deed? 

Macd,   Those  that  Macbeth  hath  slain. 

JRoss.  Alas,  the  day ! 

What  good  could  they  pretend  ? 

Macd.  They  were  suborn'd : 

Malcolm  and  Donalbain,  the  King's  two  sons, 
Are  stol'n  away  and  fled ;  which  puts  upon  them 
Suspicion  of  the  deed. 

Hoss,  'Gainst  nature  still ! 

Thriftless  ambition,  that  wilt  ravin  up 
Thine  own  life's  means !     Then  't  is  most  like 
The  sovereignty  will  fall  upon  Macbeth.  si 

Macd.    He  is  already  named,  and  gone  to  Scone 
To  be  invested. 

15.  minions  =  cherished  favorites. 

18.  eat  each  other.  We  sl^iild  probably  read  ate;  and  in- 
deed eat  and  ate  were  pronounced  alike.  This  story  about  the 
horses  is  from  Holinshed  ;  and  so  also  is  what  is  told  about  the 
tempestuous  weather. 

24.  pretend  =  purpose,  seek. 

28.  ravin  =  eat  greedily:  whence  "ravenous." 

31.  Scone:  an  ancient  town  near  Perth,'  now  obliterated. 
The  stone  on  which  the  kings  of  Scotland  were  crowned  is  now 
enclosed  in  the  coronation  chair  at  Westminster  Abbey. 


Act  III.  So.  I.]  MA  CBETH.  43 

Bos  8,  Where  is  Duncan's  body  ? 

Macd.    Carried  to  Colmekill, 
The  sacred  storehouse  of  his  predecessors, 
And  guardian  of  their  bones. 

Moss.  Will  you  to  Scone  ? 

Macd.   No,  cousin,  I  '11  to  Fife. 

Ross.  Well,  I  will  thither. 

Macd.    Well,  may  you  see  things  well  done  there  : 
adieu  ! 
Lest  our  old  robes  sit  easier  than  our  new ! 

Ross.   Farewell,  father. 

Old  M.    God's   benison   go   with   you;  and   with 
those  40 

That  would  make  good  of  bad,  and  friends  of  foes ! 

{Exeunt 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I.     Forres.     The  palace. 
Enter  Banquo. 

Bmi.   Thou   hast  it  now:  king,   Cawdor,   Glamis, 
all. 
As  the  weird  women  promised,  and,  I  fear. 
Thou  play'dst  most  foully  for  't :  yet  it  was  said 
It  should  not  stand  in  thy  posterity. 
But  that  myself  should  be  the  root  and  father 
Of  many  kings.     If  there  come  truth  from  them  — ^ 
As  upon  thee,  Macbeth,  their  speeches  shine  — 

33.  Colmekill,  or  Ilcolmkill,  a  barren  isle,  generally  known 
as  lona,  is  a  few  miles  south  of  StafPa.  It  became,  by  means  of 
St.  Columba  and  the  monastery  he  founded  there  in  the  middle 
of  the  sixth  century,  the  birthplace  of  J^hristianity  in  Scotland.. 
Hence  it  was  supposed  to  be  holy  ground;  and  hence  the  kings 
•£  Scotland  were  entombed  there. 


44  MACBETH.  [ActIIL 

Why,  by  the  verities  on  thee  made  good, 

May  they  not  be  my  oracles  as  well, 

And  set  me  up  in  hope  ?     But  hush !  no  more.  lo 

Sennet  sounded.    Enter  Macbeth,  as  king,  Lady  Macbeth,  as  queen^ 
Lennox,  Boss,  Lords,  Ladies,  and  Attendants. 

Macb.    Here  's  our  chief  guest. 

Lady  M.  If  he  had  been  forgotten, 

It  had  been  as  a  gap  in  our  great  feast, 
And  all-thing  unbecoming. 

Macb.    To-night  we  hold  a  solemn  supper,  sir. 
And  I  '11  request  your  presence. 

Ban.  Lay  your  highness^ 

Command  upon  me  ;  to  the  which  my  duties 
Are  with  a  most  indissoluble  tie 
For  ever  knit. 

Macb.    Ride  you  this  afternoon  ? 

Ban.    Ay,  my  good  lord.  20 

Macb.    We   should   have   else   desired   your  good 
advice, 
Which  still  hath  been  both  grave  and  prosperous, 
In  this  day's  council ;  but  we  '11  take  to-morrow. 
Is  't  far  you  ride  ? 

Ban.    As  far,  my  lord,  as  will  fill  up  the  time 
'Twixt  this  and  supper  :  go  not  my  horse  the  better, 
I  must  become  a  borrower  of  the  night 
For  a  dark  hour  or  twain. 

Macb.  Fail  not  our  feast. 

Ban.    My  lord,  I  will  not. 

Macb.  We  hear,  our  bloody  cousins  are  bestow'd  so 
In  England  and  in  Ireland,  not  confessing 
Their  cruel  parricide,  filling  their  hearers 
With  strange  invention  :  but  of  that  to-morrow, 
When  therewithal  we  shall  have  cause  of  state 
13.  all-thing  =  every  way. 


Scene  L]  MACBETH,  46 

Craving  us  jointly.     Hie  you  to  horse :  adieu, 
Till  you  return  at  night.     Goes  Fleance  with  you  ? 

Ban.    Ay,  my  good  lord  :  our  time  does  call  upon  's. 

Macb,    I  wish  your  horses  swift  and  sure  of  foot ; 
And  so  I  do  commend  you  to  their  backs. 

Farewell.  [-^^^^  Banquo. 

Let  every  man  be  master  of  his  time  41 

Till  seven  at  night.     To  make  society 

The  sweeter  welcome,  we  will  keep  ourself 

Till  supper-time  alone :  while  then,  God  be  with  you ! 

[Exeunt  all  but  Macbeth,  and  an  Attendant. 

Sirrah,  a  word  with  you  ;  attend  those  men 
Our  pleasure  ? 

Atten.   They  are,  my  lord,  without  the  palace  gate. 

Macb.    Bring  them  before  us.  [Exit  Attendant. 

To  be  thus  is  nothing ; 
But  to  be  safely  thus.  —  Our  fears  in  Banquo 
Stick  deep  ;  and  in  his  royalty  of  nature  so 

Reigns  that  which  would  be  fear'd  :   't  is  much  he 

dares ; 
And,  to  that  dauntless  temper  of  his  mind. 
He  hath  a  wisdom  that  doth  guide  his  valour 
To  act  in  safety.     There  is  none  but  he 
Whose  being  I  do  fear :  and,  under  him. 
My  Genius  is  rebuked  ;  as,  it  is  said, 
Mark  Antony's  was  by  Caesar.     He  chid  the  sisters 
When  first  they  put  the  name  of  king  upon  me. 
And  bade  them  speak  to  him :  then  prophet-like 
They  hail'd  him  father  to  a  line  of  kings  :  eo 

Upon  my  head  they  placed  a  fruitless  crown, 
And  put  a  barren  sceptre  in  my  gripe. 
Thence  to  be  wrench'd  with  an  unlineal  hand, 
No  son  of  mine  succeeding.     If  't  be  so, 
44.  [whiles till.] 


4fi^  MACBETH.  [ActIIL 

For  Banquo's  issue  have  I  filed  my  mind ; 

For  them  the  gracious  Duncan  have  I  murther'd; 

Put  rancours  in  the  vessel  of  my  peace 

Only  for  them  ;  and  mine  eternal  jewel 

Given  to  the  common  enemy  of  man, 

To  make  them  kings,  the  seed  of  Banquo  kings !       7o 

Rather  than  so,  come  fate  into  the  list, 

And  champion  me  to  th'  utterance  !     Who  's  there  ? 

Re-enter  Attendant,  with  two  Murderers. 

Now  go  to  the  door,  and  stay  there  till  we  call. 

[Exit  Attendant. 

Was  it  not  yesterday  we  spoke  together  ? 

First  Mur.    It  was,  so  please  your  highness. 

Mach.  Well  then,  now 

Have  you  consider'd  of  my  speeches  ?     Know 
That  it  was  he  in  the  times  past  which  held  you 
So  under  fortune,  which  you  thought  had  been 
Our  innocent  self  :  this  I  made  good  to  you 
In  our  last  conference,  pass'd  in  probation  with  you,  so 
How  you  were  borne  in  hand,  how  cross'd,  the  instru- 
ments. 
Who  wrought   with   them,  and   all   things  else  that 

might 
To  half  a  soul  and  to  a  notion  crazed 
Say  "  Thus  did  Banquo." 

First  Mur.  You  made  it  known  to  us. 

Macb.    I  did  so,  and  went  further,  which  is  now 
Our  point  of  second  meeting.     Do  you  find 
Your  patience  so  predominant  in  your  nature 

65.  filed  =  fouled,  defiled. 
68.  eternal  jev(rel  =  immortal  soul. 

72.  utterance  =  outer-ance  =  outrance.   A  combat  a  Voutranct 
was  one  to  the  uttermost  end,  death. 
81.  borne  in  hand  =  kept  up  by  promises. 


Scene!.]  MACBETH.  47 

That  y(5u  can  let  this  go  ?     Are  you  so  gospell'd 
To  pray  for  this  good  man  and  for  his  issue, 
Whose  heavy  hand  hath  bow'd  you  to  the  grave         n 
And  beggar'd  yours  for  ever  ? 

First  Mur.  We  are  men,  my  liega 

Mach,    Ay,  in  the  catalogue  ye  go  for  men  ; 
As  hounds  and  greyhounds,  mongrels,  spaniels,  curs, 
Shoughs,  water-rugs  and  demi-wolves,  are  clept 
All  by  the  name  of  dogs :  the  valued  file 
Distinguishes  the  swift,  the  slow,  the  subtle, 
The  housekeeper,  the  hunter,  every  one 
According  to  the  gift  which  bounteous  nature 
Hath  in  him  closed  ;  whereby  he  does  receive 
Particular  addition,  from  the  bill  im 

That  writes  them  all  alike  :  and  so  of  men. 
Now,  if  you  have  a  station  in  the  file, 
Not  i'  th'  worst  rank  of  manhood,  say 't ; 
And  I  will  put  that  business  in  your  bosoms, 
Whose  execution  takes  your  enemy  off. 
Grapples  you  to  the  heart  and  love  of  us, 
Who  wear  our  health  but  sickly  in  his  life, 
Which  in  his  death  were  perfect. 

Sec.  Mur.  I  am  one,  my  liege, 

Whom  the  vile  blows  and  buffets  of  the  world 
Have  so  incensed  that  I  am  reckless  what  ua 

I  do  to  spite  the  world. 

First  Mur.  And  I  another 

So  weary  with  disasters,  tugg'd  with  fortune, 

04.  [Shoughs  (shocks)  and  -water-rugs  were  shaggy  dogs.] 
clept  =r  cleped  =r  called ;  from  A.  S.  cleopian. 

95.  valued  file  =  the  graded  file,  file  on  which  value  as  well 
as  name  is  entered. 

iOO.  Particular  addition  =  a  name  or  title  belonging  par- 
ticularly to  him. 


48  MA  CBE  TH.  [Act  IIL 

That  I  would  set  my  life  on  any  chance, 
To  mend  it,  or  be  rid  on  't, 

Macb.  Both  of  you 

Know  Banquo  was  your  enemy. 

Both  Mur.  True,  my  lord. 

Macb.    So  is  he  mine  ;  and  in  such  bloody  distance, 
That  every  minute  of  his  being  thrusts 
Against  my  near'st  of  life :  and  though  I  could 
With  barefaced  power  sweep  him  from  my  sight 
And  bid  my  will  avouch  it,  yet  I  must  not,  i2e 

For  certain  friends  that  are  both  his  and  mine, 
Whose  loves  I  may  not  drop,  but  wail  his  fall 
Who  I  myself  struck  down ;  and  thence  it  is, 
That  I  to  your  assistance  do  make  love. 
Masking  the  business  from  the  common  eye 
For  sundry  weighty  reasons. 

Sec,  Mur.  We  shall,  my  lord, 

Perform  what  you  command  us. 

First  Mur.  Though  our  lives  — • 

Macb.   Your  spirits   shine  through  you.      Within 
this  hour  at  most, 
I  will  advise  you  where  to  plant  yourselves ; 
Acquaint  you  with  the  perfect  spy  o'  th'  time,  i30 

The  moment  on  't ;  for  't  must  be  done  to-night, 
And  something  from  the  palace ;  always  thought 

116.  [Dyce  notes  that  distance  "was  a  fencing  term,  denot- 
ing the  space  between  antagonists."  This  makes  the  metaphor 
in  thrusts  quite  clear.] 

130.  spy  o'  th'  time  =  anticipatory  knowledge  of  the  time. 
Dr.  Johnson  read  "a  perfect  spy,"  and  understood  "with"  to 
mean  "  by  "  and  "  spy  "  to  refer  to  the  third  murderer,  who  ap- 
pears in  Sc.  3  of  this  act,  —  a  very  plausible  interpretation,  which 
I  once  adopted  ;  but  the  former  is  much  better  suited  to  Shake- 
speare, and  particularly  to  the  style  of  this  play. 

132.  alvrays  thought  .  .  .  clearness.     Here  language  is 


Scene  IL]  MACBETH.  49 

That  I  require  a  clearness  :  and  with  him-- 
To  leave  no  rubs  nor  botches  in  the  work  — 
Fleance  his  son,  that  keeps  him  company, 
Whose  absence  is  no  less  material  to  me 
Than  is  his  father's,  must  embrace  the  fate 
Of  that  dark  hour.     Resolve  yourselves  apart : 
I  '11  come  to  you  anon. 

Both  Mur.  We  are  resolved,  my  lord. 

Macb.    I  '11  call  upon  you  straight :  abide  within.   i4« 

{^Exeunt  Murderers. 

It  is  concluded.     Banquo,  thy  soul's  flight. 

If  it  find  heaven,  must  find  it  out  to-night.  [Exiu 


Scene  II.     The  palace. 
Enter  Lady  Macbeth  and  a  Servant. 

Lady  M.    Is  Banquo  gone  from  court? 

Serv.    Ay,  madam,  but  returns  again  to-night. 

Lady  M.    Say  to  the  King,  I  would   attend   his 
leisure 
For  a  few  words. 

8erv.  Madam,  I  will.  \Exit. 

Lady  M.  Nought 's  had,  all 's  spent, 

Where  our  desire  is  got  without  content : 
'T  is  safer  to  be  that  which  we  destroy 
Than  by  destruction  dwell  in  doubtful  joy. 

Enter  Macbeth. 
How  now,  my  lord !  why  do  you  keep  alone, 
Of  sorriest  fancies  your  companions  making. 
Using  those  thoughts  which  shoidd  indeed  have  died  lo 

strained  to  the  utmost  to  put  briefly  and  rhythmically  what 
Holinslied  says  thus:  "so  that  he  would  not  have  his  house 
slaundered,  but  that  in  time  to  come  he  might  cleare  himselfe." 


50  MA  CBETH.  [Acf  III. 

With  them  they  think  on  ?     Things  without  all  remedy 
Should  be  without  regard  :  what 's  done  is  done. 

Mach.   We  have  scotch'd  the  snake,  not  kill'd  it : 
She  '11  close  and  be  herself,  whilst  our  poor  malice 
Remains  in  danger  of  her  former  tooth. 
But  let  the  frame  of  things  disjoint,  both  the  worlds 

suffer, 
Ere  we  will  eat  our  meal  in  fear,  and  sleep 
In  the  affliction  of  these  terrible  dreams 
That  shake  us  nightly.     Better  be  with  the  dead, 
Whom  we,  to  gain  our  place,  have  sent  to  peace,       20 
Than  on  the  torture  of  the  mind  to  lie 
In  restless  ecstasy.     Duncan  is  in  his  grave ; 
After  life's  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well ; 
Treason  has  done  his  worst :  nor  steel,  nor  poison^ 
Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing, 
Can  touch  him  further. 

Lady  M.  Come  on ; 

Gentle  my  lord,  sleek  o'er  your  rugged  looks ; 
Be  bright  and  jovial  among  your  guests  to-night. 

Mach,    So  shall  I,  love  ;  and  so,  I  pray,  be  you : 
Let  your  remembrance  apply  to  Banquo  ;  a© 

Present  him  eminence,  both  with  eye  and  tongue : 
Unsafe  the  while,  that  we  .  .  . 

11.  v^ithout  all  remedy  =  outside  of,  beyond,  all  remedy. 

13.  scotch'd  =cut,  but  not  cut  quite  through;  a  word  which 
should  not  need  a  gloss  in  New  England. 

20.  our  place.  The  folio,  "  our  peace ;  "  but  Macbeth  had 
killed  no  one  yet  for  peace'  sake.  He  killed  Duncan  for  his 
place. 

22.  [ecstasy:  in  Shakespeare  this  signifies  any  intense  ex- 
citement, whether  painful  or  pleasurable.] 

30.  remembrance:  to  be  pronounced  rememberance;  and 
perhaps  should  be  so  printed. 

32.  Unsafe  the  while,  etc.:  a  mutilated  line:  the  missing 
phrase  meaning,  probably,  "  for  safety's  sake." 


Scene  IL]  MACBETH.  t)l 

Must  lave  our  honours  in  these  flattering  streams, 
And  make  our  faces  vizards  to  our  hearts, 
Disguising  what  they  are. 

Lady  M.  You  must  leave  this. 

Macb.   O,  full  of  scorpions  is  my  mind,  dear  wife ! 
Thou  know'st  that  Banquo,  and  his  Fleance,  lives. 

Lady  M.    But  in  them  nature's  copy  's  not  eterne. 

Macb.   There  's  comfort  yet ;  they  are  assailable ; 
Then  be  thou  jocund  :  ere  the  bat  hath  flown  40 

His  cloister'd  flight,  ere  to  black  Hecate's  summons 
The  shard-borne  beetle  with  his  drowsy  hums 
Hath  rung  night's  yawning  peal,  there  shall  be  done 
A  deed  of  dreadful  note. 

Lady  M.  What 's  to  be  done  ? 

Macb.    Be  innocent  of  the  knowledge,  dearest  chuck, 
Till  thou  applaud  the  deed.     Come,  seeling  night, 
Scarf  up  the  tender  eye  of  pitiful  day ; 
And  with  thy  bloody  and  invisible  hand 
Cancel  and  tear  to  pieces  that  great  bond 
Which   keeps   me   pale !     Light   thickens ;  and  the 
crow  50 

Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood  :^ 
Good  things  of  day  begin  to  droop  and  drowse ; 
Whiles  night's  black  agents  to  their  preys  do  rouse. 
Thou  marvell'st  at  my  words  :  but  hold  thee  still : 

38.  nature's  copy  =  the  likeness  of  nature,  their  natural 
lives;  but  some  critics  would  have  a  legal  meaning,  and  refer 
"  copy  "  to  copyhold. 

42.  shard-borne  =  borne  on  his  shard  wings.  Shard  =  a 
thin,  brittle  substance;  for  example  pot-sherd. 

46.  seeling  =:  blinding;  a  term  of  falconry.  One  part  of  the 
training  of  hawks  was  to  sew  up,  or  seel,  their  eyes. 

49.  [that  great  bond :  evidently  Banquo's  life.  Compare 
Richard  III.  Act  IV.  Sc.  4:  "  Cancel  his  bond  of  life."  Is  not 
this  related  to  nature's  copy,  line  38  ?] 


62  MA  CBE  TH.  [Act  III. 

Things  bad  begun  make  strong  themselves  by  ill. 
So,  prithee,  go  with  me.  [Exeunt. 

Scene   III.     A  park  near  the  palace. 

Enter  three  Murderers. 

First  Mur.  But  who  did  bid  thee  join  with  us  ? 

Third  Mur.  Macbeth. 

Sec.  Mur.   He   needs   not   our   mistrust,  since   he 
delivers 
Our  offices  and  what  we  have  to  do 
To  the  direction  just. 

First  Mur.  Then  stand  with  us. 

The  west  yet  glimmers  with  some  streaks  of  day : 
Now  spurs  the  lated  traveller  apace 
To  gain  the  timely  inn  ;  and  near  approaches 
The  subject  of  our  watch. 

Third  Mur.  Hark  !  I  hear  horses. 

Ban.    [  Within.^   Give  us  a  light  there,  ho  ! 

Sec.  Mur.  Then  't  is  he  :  the  rest 

That  are  within  the  note  of  expectation  i« 

Already  are  i'  th'  court. 

First  Mur.  His  horses  go  about. 

Third  Mur.  Almost  a  mile  :  but  he  does  usually, 
So  all  men  do,  from  hence  to  the  palace  gate 
Make  it  their  walk. 

Sec.  Mur^  A  light,  a  light ! 

Enter  Banqco,  and  Fleance  with  a  torch. 

Third  Mur.  'T  is  he. 

First  Mur.   Stand  to  't. 

JBan.    It  will  be  rain  to-night. 

First  Mur.  Let  it  come  down. 

[They  set  upon  Banquo. 

Ban.    O,  treachery !  Fly,  good  Fleance,  fly,  fly, 
fly! 

Thou  mayst  revenge.      O  slave  !         [Dies.     Fleance  escapes. 


Scene  IV.]  MACBETH.  6^ 

Third  Mur.    Who  did  strike  out  the  light  ? 

First  Mur,  Was  't  not  the  way  T 

Third  Mm\    There  's  but  one  down ;  the  son  is 

fled. 
Sec,  Mur,         We  have  lost 
Best  half  of  our  affair.  21 

First  Mur,   Well,  let  's  away,  and  say  how  much 

is  done. 

[Exeunt, 

Scene  IV.     The  same.     Hall  in  the  palace. 

A  banquet  prepared.    Enter  Macbeth,  Lady  Macbeth,  Boss, 
Lennox,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

Mach,   You  know  your  own  degrees ;  sit  down :  at 
first 
And  last  the  hearty  welcome. 

Lords,  Thanks  to  your  majesty. 

Mach,    Ourself  will  mingle  with  society, 
And  play  the  humble  host. 
Our  hostess  keeps  her  state,  but  in  best  time 
We  will  require  her  welcome. 

Lady  M,     Pronounce   it   for  me,   sir,  to    all  our 
friends ; 
For  my  heart  speaks  they  are  welcome. 

First  Murderer  appears  at  the  door. 

Mach.    See,  they  encounter  thee  with  their  hearts' 
thanks. 
Both  sides  are  even  :  here  I  '11  sit  i'  th'  midst :  10 

Be  large  in  mirth ;  anon  we  '11  drink  a  measure 
The  table  round.     [^Approaching  the  door.']    There  's 
blood  upon  thy  face. 
Mur,    'T  is  Banquo's  then. 

6.  her  state  =  her  place  of  state^  a  canopied  chair  on  a  dais. 


54  MACBETH.  [ActIIL 

Macb,    'T  is  better  thee  without  than  he  within. 
Is  he  dispatch'd  ? 

Mur.    My   lord,  his  throat  is  cut ;  that  I  did  for 
him. 

Mad).,  Thou  art   the  best  o'   th'  cut-throats:  yet 
he  's  good 
That  did  the  like  for  Fleance :  if  thou  didst  it, 
Thou  art  the  nonpareil. 

MuT.  Most  royal  sir, 

Fleance  is  'scaped.  » 

Macb.    Then  comes  my  fit  again  :  I  had  else  been 
perfect, 
Whole  as  the  marble,  founded  as  the  rock. 
As  broad  and  general  as  the  casing  air : 
But  now  I  am  cabin'd,  cribb'd,  confined,  bound  in 
To  saucy  doubts  and  fears.     But  Banquo  's  safe  ? 

Mur.    Ay,  my  good  lord :  safe  in  a  ditch  he  bides, 
With  twenty  trenched  gashes  on  his  head ; 
The  least  a  death  to  nature. 

Macb.  .  Thanks  for  that : 

There  the  grown  serpent  lies  ;  the  worm  that 's  fled 
Hath  nature  that  in  time  will  venom  breed,  30 

No  teeth  for  the  present.     Get  thee  gone  :  to-morrow 

We  '11  hear  ourselves  again.  {Exit  Murderers. 

Lady  M.  My  royal  lord. 

You  do  not  give  the  cheer :  the  feast  is  sold 
That  is  not  often  vouch'd,  while  't  is  a-making, 
'T  is  given  with  welcome  :  to  feed  were  best  at  home ; 
From  thence  the  sauce  to  meat  is  ceremony  ; 
Meeting  were  bare  without  it. 

Macb.  Sweet  remembrancer ! 

Now,  good  digestion  wait  on  appetite, 
And  health  on  both  ! 

14.  than  he  within:  carelessly  written  for  "  than  him,"  etc. 
23.  oasing  =  encompassing. 


SoKNElV.]  MACBETH.  55 

Len,  May  't  please  your  highness  sit. 

[The  Ghost  of  Banquo  enters,  and  sits  in  Macbeth' s place. 

Macb.    Here  had    we   now   our   country's    honour 
roof'd,  40 

Were  the  graced  person  of  our  Banquo  present, 
Who  may  I  rather  challenge  for  unkindness 
Than  pity  for  mischance,  — 

Itoss.  His  absence,  sir. 

Lays  blame  upon  his  promise.     Please  't  your  high- 
ness 
To  grace  us  with  your  royal  company. 

Mach.   The  table  's  full. 

Len.  Here  is  a  place  reserved,  sir. 

Macb.    Where? 

Len.    Here,  my  good  lord.     What  is  't  that  moves 
your  highness  ? 

Macb.   Which  of  you  have  done  this  ? 

Lords.  What,  my  good  lord  ? 

Macb.  Thou  canst  not  say  I  did  it :  never  shake  50 
Thy  gory  locks  at  me. 

Moss.    Gentlemen,  rise  :  his  highness  is  not  well. 

Lady  M.    Sit,  worthy   friends :  my  lord  is  often 
thus. 
And  hath  been  from  his  youth  :  pray  you,  keep  seat ; 
The  fit  is  momentary  ;  upon  a  thought 
He  will  again  be  well :  if  much  you  note  him. 
You  shall  offend  him  and  extend  his  passion  : 
Feed,  and  regard  him  not.   [^ Aside  to  Macbeth.^    Are 
you  a  man  ? 

57.  passion  =  suffering. 

58.  Are  you  a  man  ?  This  and  Lady  Macbeth's  three  fol- 
lowing speeches  are  hurried  under-breath  expostulations  with 
her  husband;  but  his  speeches  in  reply  are  spoken  only  with  the 
restraint  of  terror.  At  line  83  she  addresses  him  in  her  society 
way,  and  he  so  answers. 


66  MACBETH.  [Act  III 

Mach.   Ay,  and  a  bold  one,  that  dare  look  on  that 
Which  might  appal  the  devil. 

Lady  M.    [^ Aside  to  Macbeth.']  O  proper  stuff  I    eo 
This  is  the  very  painting  of  your  fear : 
This  is  the  air-drawn  dagger  which,  you  said. 
Led  you  to  Duncan.     O,  these  flaws  and  starts, 
Impostors  to  true  fear,  would  well  become 
A  woman's  story  at  a  winter's  fire. 
Authorized  by  her  grandam.     Shame  itself  ! 
Why  do  you  make  such  faces  ?     When  all 's  done, 
You  look  but  on  a  stool. 

Mach,    Prithee,  see  there !  behold !  look !   lo !  how 
say  you  ? 
Why,  what  care  I  ?     If  thou  canst  nod,  speak  too.    to 
If  charnel-houses  and  our  graves  must  send 
Those  that  we  bury  back,  our  monuments 
Shall  be  the  maws  of  kites.  [GAos^  vanishes. 

Lady  M.    [^Aside  to  Macbeth.']    What,  quite   un- 
manned in  folly  ? 

Macb.    If  I  stand  here,  I  saw  him. 

Lady  M,        \^As%de  to  Macbeth.]    Fie,  for  shame ! 

Macb.    Blood  hath  been  shed  ere  now,  i'  th'  olden 
time. 
Ere  human  statute  purged  the  gentle  weal ; 
Ay,  and  since  too,  murthers  have  been  performed 
Too  terrible  for  the  ear :  the  time  has  been. 
That,  when  the  brains  were  out,  the  man  would  die, 
And  there  an  end  ;  but  now  they  rise  again,  so 

63.  [fla-ws  =:  sudden  gusts.] 

66.  [Read  autho'rized.T 

76.  [human  statute  :  the  folio  reads  "  humane,"  which  Shake- 
speare accented  on  the  first  syllable.  The  meaning  in  this 
passage  would  be  nearly  the  same,  "weal  =  commonweal,  as 
throughout  the  play;  gentle,  as  the  Clarendon  Press  editors  have 
pointed  out,  is  of  course  to  be  taken  proleptically.] 


Scene  IV.]  MACBETH.  67 

With  twenty  mortal  murthers  on  their  crowns, 
And  push  us  from  our  stools :  this  is  more  strange 
Than  such  a  murther  is. 

Lady  M.  My  worthy  lord, 

Your  noble  friends  do  lack  you. 

Macb.  I  do  forget. 

Do  not  muse  at  me,  my  most  worthy  friends ; 
I  have  a  strange  infirmity,  which  is  nothing 
To  those  that  know  me.     Come,  love  and  health  to 

all; 
Then  I  '11  sit  down.     Give  me  some  wine  ;  fill  full. 
I  drink  to  the  general  joy  o'  th'  whole  table, 
And  to  our  dear  friend  Banquo,  whom  we  miss ;       so 
Would  he  were  here !  to  all,  and  him,  we  thirst. 
And  all  to  all. 

Lords,  Our  duties,  and  the  pledge. 

Re-enter  Ghost. 

Macb,   Avaunt !  and  quit  my  sight !  let  the  earth 
hide  thee ! 
Thy  bones  are  marrowless,  thy  blood  is  cold ; 
Thou  hast  no  speculation  in  those  eyes 
Which  thou  dost  glare  with  ! 

Lady  M.  Think  of  this,  good  peers, 

But  as  a  thing  of  custom  :  't  is  no  other ; 
Only  it  spoils  the  pleasure  of  the  time. 

Macb.    What  man  dare,  I  dare : 
Approach  thou  like  the  rugged  Kussian  bear,  loo 

The  arm'd  rhinoceros,  or  the  Hyrcan  tiger  ; 
Take  any  shape  but  that,  and  my  firm  nerves 

81.  twenty  mortal  murthers.  Quite  probably  Shakespeare 
meant  to  write,  possibly  did  write,  "  twenty  mortal  gashes."  See 
line  27. 

101.  Hyrcan  tiger.  Hyrcania  was  a  part  of  the  Scythian 
wild,  south  of  the  Caspian  Sea. 


k 


58  MA  CBETH.  [Act  IIL 

Shall  never  tremble  :  or  be  alive  again, 

And  dare  me  to  the  desert  with  thy  sword ; 

If  trembling  I  inhabit  then,  protest  me 

The  baby  of  a  girl.     Hence,  horrible  shadow  ! 

Unreal  mockery,  hence  !  [Ghost  vanishes* 

Why,  so :  being  gone, 
I  am  a  man  again.     Pray  you,  sit  still. 

Lady  M,   You  have  displaced  the  mirth,  broke  the 
good  meeting. 
With  most  admired  disorder. 

Macb,  Can  such  things  be,  uo 

And  overcome  us  like  a  summer's  cloud. 
Without  our  special  wonder  ?     You  make  me  strange 
Even  to  the  disposition  that  I  owe, 
When  now  I  think  you  can  behold  such  sights, 
And  keep  the  natural  ruby  of  your  cheeks. 
When  mine  is  blanch'd  with  fear. 

lioss.  What  sights,  my  lord  ? 

Lady  M.    I  pray  you,  speak  not ;  he  grows  worse 
and  worse ; 
Question  enrages  him.     At  once,  good  night : 
Stand  not  upon  the  order  of  your  going. 
But  go  at  once. 

Len.  Good  night ;  and  better  health       m 

Attend  his  majesty ! 

Lady  M,  A  kind  good  night  to  all ! 

[Exeunt  all  hut  Macbeth  and  Lady  M. 

105.  If  trembling,  etc.  This  may  mean  either  "  If  I  then 
dwell,  exist,  in  trembling  "  (as  in  "  Thou  that  inhabitest  the 
praises  of  Israel,"  Psalm  xxii.  3),  or,  "  If  I  then  keep  within  my 
house  and  dare  not  meet  thee  in  the  desert." 

106.  [baby :  it  is  possible  that  this  means  doll.  Mr.  White 
elsewhere  remarks,  "Girls  still  retain  this  use  of  the  word  ia 
*  baby-house.' "] 

110.  admired  =  wondered  at. 


1 


Scene  IV.]  MACBETH.  69 

Macb.    It   will   have   blood  ;   tliey  say,  blood  wiD 
have  blood : 
Stones  have  been  known  to  move  and  trees  to  speak ; 
Auguries  and  understood  relations  have 
By  magot-pies  and  choughs  and  rooks  brought  forth 
The  secret'st  man  of  blood.     What  is  the  night  ? 

Lady  M.    Almost  at  odds  with  morning,  which  is 
which. 

Mach.    How  say'st  thou,  that  Macduff  denies  his 
person 
At  our  great  bidding  ? 

Lady  M.  Did  you  send  to  him,  sir  ? 

Mach.    I  hear  it  by  the  way  ;  but  I  will  send  ;       isa 
There  's  not  a  man  of  them  but  in  his  house 
I  keep  a  servant  fee'd.     I  will  to-morrow, 
And  betimes  I  will,  to  the  weird  sisters : 
More  shall  they  speak ;  for  now  I  am  bent  to  know, 
By  the  worst  means,  the  worst.     For  mine  own  good, 
All  causes  shall  give  way :  I  am  in  blood 
Stepp'd  in  so  far  that,  should  I  wade  no  more, 
Returning  were  as  tedious  as  go  o'er ; 
Strange  things  I  have  in  head,  that  will  to  hand ; 
Which  must  be  acted  ere  they  may  be  scann'd.  i40 

Lady  M.   You  lack  the  season  of  all  natures,  sleep. 

Mach.    Come,  we  '11  to  sleep.    My  strange  and  self- 
abuse 
Is  the  initiate  fear  that  wants  hard  use : 
We  are  yet  but  young  in  deed.  [Exeunt. 

125.  magot-pies  ==  magpies. 

131.  There  's  not  a  man :  from  Holinshed  :  "  For  Makbeth 
bad  in  every  noble  man's  house  one  slie  fellow  or  other  in  fee 
with  him." 

142.  [self-abuse :=  delusion  "proceeding  from  the  heat-op« 
pressed  brain."] 


60  MACBETH.  [ActIIL 

Scene  V.     A  heath. 
Thunder.     Enter  the  three  Witches,  meeting  Hecate. 

First  Witch,    Why,   how  now,  Hecate !  you  look 
angerly. 

Hec,    Have  I  not  reason,  beldams  as  you  are, 
Saucy  and  overbold  ?     How  did  you  dare 
To  trade  and  traffic  with  Macbeth 
In  riddles  and  affairs  of  death ; 
And  I,  the  mistress  of  your  charms, 
The  close  contriver  of  all  harms, 
Was  never  call'd  to  bear  my  part, 
Or  show  the  glory  of  our  art  ? 

And,  which  is  worse,  all  you  have  done  10 

Hath  been  but  for  a  wayward  son. 
Spiteful  and  wrathful,  who,  as  others  do, 
Loves  for  his  own  ends,  not  for  you. 
But  make  amends  now :  get  you  gone, 
And  at  the  pit  of  Acheron 
Meet  miB  i'  th'  morning :  thither  he 
Will  come  to  know  his  destiny : 
Your  vessels  and  your  spells  provide, 
Your  charms  and  every  thing  beside. 
I  am  for  the  air  ;  this  night  I  '11  spend  SO 

Unto  a  dismal  and  a  fatal  end : 
Great  business  must  be  wrought  ere  noon : 
Upon  the  corner  of  the  moon 
There  hangs  a  vaporous  drop  profound ; 
I  '11  catch  it  ere  it  come  to  ground : 
And  that  distill'd  by  magic  sleights 

1.  Hecate :  properly  pronounced  Hec-at-e,  but  here  Hec-at, 
A  mysterious  .and  even  now  little  understood  goddess  of  the 
heathen  mythology  ;  a  "  contriver  of  all  harms." 

15.  Acheron :  a  river  in  Hades,  here  made  a  pit  in  Scotland. 


I 


Scene  VL]  MACBETH.  61 

Shall  raise  such  artificial  sprites 

As  by  the  strength  of  their  illusion 

Shall  draw  him  on  to  his  confusion : 

He  shall  spurn  fate,  scorn  death,  and  bear  8D 

His  hopes  'bove  wisdom,  grace  and  fear : 

And  you  all  know,  security 

Is  mortals'  chiefest  enemy. 

[Music,  and  a  song  within :  "  Come  away,  come  away,"  etc. 

Hark  !  1  am  call'd  ;  my  little  spirit,  see, 
Sits  in  a  foggy  cloud,  and  stays  for  me.  [Exit. 

First  Witch,    Come,  let  's  make  haste  ;  she  '11  soon 
be  back  again.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  VI.     Forres.     The  palace. 
Enter  Lennox  and  another  Lord. 

Len.   My   former    speeches    have    but    hit   your 

thoughts. 
Which  can  interpret  further  :  only,  I  say. 
Things   have   been    strangely   borne.     The  gracious 

Duncan 
Was  pitied  of  Macbeth :  marry,  he  was  dead : 
And  the  right- valiant  Ban  quo  walk'd  too  late  ; 
Whom,  you  may  say,  if  't  please  you,  Fleance  kill'd, 
For  Fleance  fled  :  men  must  not  walk  too  late. 
Who  cannot  want  the  thought  how  monstrous 
It  was  for  Malcolm  and  for  Donalbain 
To  kill  their  gracious  father  ?  damned  fact !  lo 

Music  and  a  song,  etc.  The  song  (which  the  folio  stage  di- 
rection calls  for)  is  found  in  Middleton's  Witch.  It  is  a  part 
song  ;  Hecate  being  principal.     See  Introduction. 

3.  [borne  =  carried  on,  managed.] 

8.  Who  cannot  want,  etc.  Shakespeare  meant  "  Who  can 
want,"  etc  :  an  example  of  heterophemy.  [monstrous :  a  tri- 
syllable.] 

10.  [fact  r=:  deed,  thing  done  (applied  by  Shakespeare  to  evil 
deeds.)] 


m  MACBETH.  [Act  III.  Sc.  VL 

How  it  did  grieve  Macbeth !  did  he  not  straight 

In  pious  rage  the  two  delinquents  tear, 

That  were  the  slaves  of  drink  and  thralls  of  sleep? 

Was  not  that  nobly  done  ?     Ay,  and  wisely  too ; 

For  't  would  have  anger'd  any  heart  alive 

To  hear  the  men  deny  't.     So  that,  I  say, 

He  has  borne  all  things  well :  and  I  do  think 

That  had  he  Duncan's  sons  under  his  key  — 

As,  an  't  please  heaven,  he  shall   not  —  they  should 

find 
What  't  were  to  kill  a  father ;  so  should  Fleance.      2« 
But,  peace  !  for  from  broad  words  and  'cause  he  f ail'd 
His  presence  at  the  tyrant's  feast,  I  hear 
Macduff  lives  in  disgrace :  sir,  can  you  tell 
Where  he  bestows  himseK  ? 

Lord,  The  son  of  Duncan, 

From  whom  this  tyrant  holds  the  due  of  birth, 
Lives  in  the  English  court,  and  is  received 
Of  the  most  pious  Edward  with  such  grace 
That  the  malevolence  of  fortune  nothing 
Takes  from  his  high  respect :  thither  Macduff 
Is  gone  to  pray  the  holy  king,  upon  his  aid  » 

To  wake  Northumberland  and  warlike  Siward : 
That,  by  the  help  of  these  —  with  Him  above 
To  ratify  the  work  —  we  may  again 
Give  to  our  tables  meat,  sleep  to  our  nights. 
Free  from  our  feasts  and  banquets  bloody  knives, 
Do  faithful  homage  and  receive  free  honours  : 
All  which  we  pine  for  now  :  and  this  report 

27.  the  most  pious  Edvrard  =  Edward  the  Confessor,  the 
predecessor  of  Harold. 

35.  Free  from  our  feasts,  etc.  Had  Shakespeare  been  in  less 
haste, he  probably  would  have  remodelled  this  line  thus:  "From 
bloody  knives  our  feasts  and  banquets  free." 


Act  IV.  Sc.  I.]  MA  CBETH.  68 

Hath  so  exasperate  the  King  that  he 
Prepares  for  some  attempt  of  war. 

Len,  Sent  he  to  Macduff? 

Lord,   He  did  :  and  with  an  absolute  "  Sir,  not  I," 
The  cloudy  messenger  turns  me  his  back,  « 

And  hums,  as  who  should  say,  "  You  '11  rue  the  time 
That  clogs  me  with  this  answer." 

Len,  And  that  well  might 

Advise  him  to  a  caution,  to  hold  what  distance 
His  wisdom  can  provide.     Some  holy  angel 
Fly  to  the  court  of  England  and  unfold 
His  message  ere  he  come,  that  a  swift  blessing 
May  soon  return  to  this  our  suffering  country 
Under  a  hand  accursed  ! 

Lord,  I  '11  send  my  prayers  with  him.    [Exeunu 


ACT  IV. 

Scene  I.     A  cavern.     In  the  middle,  a  boiling  cauldron. 

Thunder.     Enter  the  three  Witches. 

First  Witch,    Thrice  the  brinded  cat  hath  mew'd.  . 

Sec,  Witch,    Thrice,  and  once  the  hedge-pig  whined. 

Third  Witch,   Harpier  cries,  'T  is  time,  't  is  time. 

First  Witch,    Kound  about  the  cauldron  go ; 
In  the  poison'd  entrails  throw. 
Toad,  that  under  cold  stone 

1.  brinded  :  The  same  as  "  brindled." 

3.  Harpier.  If  this  word  is  not  a  corruption,  or  a  misprint  of 
harpy,  we  know  not  what  it  means. 

6.  Toad,  etc.  [Collier  remarks,  "  Laying  only  due  and  expres- 
sive emphasis  upon*  cold,' it  may  be  doubted  whether  the  line  be 
defective."  And  Hudson  :  "  To  our  ear  the  extending  of  '  cold ' 
to  the  time  of  two  syllables  feels  right  enough."  So  also  the 
Clarendon  Press  editors.] 


64  MACBETH.  [Act  IV. 

Days  and  nights  has  thirty-one 
Swelter'd  venom  sleeping  got, 
Boil  thou  first  i'  th'  charmed  pot. 

AIL    Double,  double  toil  and  trouble  ;  ifl 

Fire  burn,  and  cauldron  bubble. 

Sec.  Witch.   Fillet  of  a  fenny  snake, 
In  the  cauldron  boil  and  bake ; 
Eye  of  newt  and  toe  of  frog. 
Wool  of  bat  and  tongue  of  dog, 
Adder's  fork  and  blind-worm's  sting, 
liizard's  leg  and  owlet's  wing. 
For  a  charm  of  powerful  trouble, 
Like  a  hell-broth  boil  and  bubble. 

All.    Double,  double  toil  and  trouble  ;  al 

Fire  burn  and  cauldron  bubble. 

Third  Witch.    Scale  of  dragon,  tooth  of  wolf, 
Witches'  mummy,  maw  and  gulf 
Of  the  ravin'd  salt-sea  shark, 
Root  of  hemlock  digg'd  i'  th'  dark, 
Liver  of  blaspheming  Jew, 
Gall  of  goat,  and  slips  of  yew 
Sliver'd  in  the  moon's  eclipse, 
Nose  of  Turk  and  Tartar's  lips, 

Finger  of  birth-strangled  babe  air 

Ditch-deliver'd  by  a  drab. 
Make  the  gruel  thick  and  slab  : 
Add  thereto  a  tiger's  chaudron, 
For  the  ingredients  of  our  cauldron. 

8.  [Swelter'd  =  sweated.] 

23.  [Gulf  =  that  which  sucks  in,  as  a  whirlpool  does  (engulfs). 
Hence  it  has  been  defined  as  "  gullet." 

24.  ravin'd  =  ravening,  ravenous. 

33.  chaudron  =  omentum   or    rim,    part    of    the    entrailsc 
Cauldron  was  a  perfect  rh^-mc,  the  I  being  then  silent. 


Scene  I.]  MA  CBETH.  65 

All,   Double,  double  toil  and  trouble  ; 
Fire  burn  and  cauldron  bubble. 

Sec.  Witch,    Cool  it  with  a  baboon's  blood. 
Then  the  charm  is  firm  and  good. 

Enter  Hecate  to  the  other  three  Witches. 

Hec,    O,  well  done  I  I  commend  your  pains; 
And  every  one  shall  share  i'  th'  gains  :  40 

And  now  about  the  cauldron  sing, 
Like  elves  and  fairies  in  a  ring. 
Enchanting  all  that  you  put  in. 

[Music  and  a  song :  "  Black  spirits,"  etc.     Hecate  retires. 

Sec.  Witch.    By  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs, 
Something  wicked  this  way  comes. 
Open,  locks. 
Whoever  knocks ! 

Enter  Macbeth. 

Mach.    How  now,  you  secret,  black,  and  midnight 
hags ! 
What  is 't  you  do  ? 

All.  A  deed  without  a  name. 

Mach.    I  conjure  you,  by  that  which  you  profess,    50 
Howe'er  you  come  to  know  it,  answer  me : 
Though  you  untie  the  winds  and  let  them  fight 
Against  the  churches ;  though  the  yesty  waves 
Confound  and  swallow  navigation  up  ; 
Though  bladed  corn  be  lodged  and  trees  blown  down ; 
Though  castles  topple  on  their  warders'  heads ; 
Though  palaces  and  pyramids  do  slope 
Their  heads  to  their  foundations;  though  the  treas- 
ure 

Music  and  a  song,  Black  spirits,  etc.  :  This  song  also  is 
found  in  Middleton's  Witch. 

65.  Though  bladed  corn  be  lodged  =  though  corn  in  the 
blade  be  laid  flat. 


b 


M  MA  CBETH,  [Act  IV. 

Of  nature's  germens  tumble  all  together, 

Even  till  destruction  sicken  ;  answer  me  M 

To  what  I  ask  you. 

First  Witch,  Speak. 

Sec.  Witch.  Demand. 

Third  Witch.  We  '11  answer. 

First  Witch.    Say,  if  thou  'dst  rather  hear  it  from 
our  mouths, 
Or  from  our  masters'  ? 

Mach.  Call  'em ;  let  me  see  'em. 

First  Witch.   Pour  in  sow's  blood,  that  hath  eaten 
Her  nine  farrow  ;  grease  that 's  sweaten 
From  the  murderer's  gibbet  throw 
Into  the  flame. 

All.  Come,  high  or  low ; 

Thyself  and  office  deftly  show ! 

Thunder.     First  ApparitioH  :  an  armed  Head. 

Mach.    Tell  me,  thou  unknown  power,  — 

First  Witch.  He  knows  thy  thought : 

Hear  his  speech,  but  say  thou  nought.  70 

First  App.   Macbeth !    Macbeth !    Macbeth !    be- 
ware Macduff ; 

Beware  the  thane  of  Fife.     Dismiss  me.     Enough. 

[^Descends. 

Mach.   Whate'er  thou  art,  for  thy  good   caution, 
thanks ; 
T^iou   hast   harp'd    my  fear   aright:    but   one   word 
more,  — 
First  Witch.     He  will  not  be  commanded :  here 's 
another, 
More  potent  than  the  first. 

59.  germens  =  growing  seeds  ;  here,  the  germs  and  roots  of 
all  things. 


Scene  I.]  MACBETH.  67 

Thunder.     Second  Apparition  :  a  bloody  Child. 

Sec.  App.    Macbeth !  Macbeth  !  Macbeth  ! 

Mach.    Had  I  three  ears,  I  'd  hear  thee. 

Sec.  App.    Be  bloody,  bold,  and  resolute ;  laugh  to 
scorn 
The  power  of  man  ;  for  none  of  woman  born  so 

Shall  harm  Macbeth.  [Descends. 

Mach.    Then  live,  Macduff :    what  need  I  fear  of 
thee? 
But  yet  I  '11  make  assurance  double  sure. 
And  take  a  bond  of  fate  :  thou  shalt  not  live  ; 
That  I  may  tell  pale-hearted  fear  it  lies. 
And  sleep  in  spite  of  thunder. 

Thunder.     Third  Apparition  :  a  Child  crowned,  with  a  tree  in  his  hand. 

What  is  this 
That  rises  like  the  issue  of  a  king. 
And  wears  upon  his  baby-brow  the  round 
And  top  of  sovereignty  ? 

AIL  Listen,  but  speak  not  to  't. 

Third  App.   Be  lion-mettled,  proud  ;  and  take  no 
care  90 

Who  chafes,  who  frets,  or  where  conspirers  are  : 
Macbeth  shall  never  vanquish'd  be  until 
Great  Birnam  wood  to  high  Dunsinane  hill 
Shall  come  against  him.  [Descends. 

Mach.  That  will  never  be  : 

Who  can  impress  the  forest,  bid  the  tree 
Unfix   his   earth  -  bound   root  ?      Sweet   bodements  ! 

good  ! 
Rebellion's  head,  rise  never  till  the  wood 
Of  Birnam  rise,  and  our  high-placed  Macbeth 
Shall  live  the  lease  of  nature,  pay  his  breath 
To  time  and  mortal  custom.     Yet  my  heart  100 


68  MACBETH.  [Act  IV. 

Throbs  to  know  one  thing :  tell  me,  if  your  art 
Can  tell  so  much :  shall  Banquo's  issue  ever 
Reign  in  this  kingdom  ? 

AIL  Seek  to  know  no  more. 

Macb,    I  will  be  satisfied :  deny  me  this, 
And  an  eternal  curse  fall  on  you !     Let  me  know. 
Why  sinks  that  cauldron  ?  and  what  noise  is  this  ? 

[Hautboys, 

First  Witch.    Show! 

Sec.  Witch.    Show! 

Third  Witch.    Show! 

All.    Show  his  eyes,  and  grieve  his  heart ;  ui 

Come  like  shadows,  so  depart ! 

A  show  of  Eight  Kings,  <Ae  last  with  a  glass  in  his  hand;  Banqud^s 
Ghost  following. 

Macb.   Thou   art  too  like  the  spirit  of   Banquo; 
down  ! 
Thy  crown  does  sear  mine  eye-balls.     And  thy  hair, 
Thou  other  gold-bound  brow,  is  like  the  first. 
A  third  is  like  the  former.     Filthy  hags  ! 
Why  do  you  show  me  this  ?     A  fourth !     Start,  eyes ! 
What,  will  the  line  stretch  out  to  the  crack  of  doom  ? 
Another  yet !     A  seventh !     I  'U  see  no  more : 
And  yet  the  eighth  appears,  who  bears  a  glass 
Which  shows  me  many  more  ;  and  some  I  see  120 

That  two-fold  balls  and  treble  sceptres  carry : 
Horrible  sight !     Now,  I  see,  't  is  true  ; 

A  shovr  of  Eight  Kings.  Eight  Stuart  Kings,  said  to  have 
been  descended  from  Banquo,  preceded  James  I.,  upon  the 
throne  of  Scotland.  His  beheaded  mother,  Mary,  was  pru- 
dently left  out  of  the  show. 

121.  t"wo-fold  balls  and  treble  sceptres :  indicating  the 
coming  union  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  and  of  the  kingdoms 
of  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland,  which  took  place  under  James 
I.,  although  the  united  kingdom  was  not  formed  until  afterwards. 


Scene!.]  MACBETH.  69 

For  the  blood-bolter'd  Banquo  smiles  upon  me, 
And  points  at  them  for  his.       \_Apparitions  vanish.'} 
What,  is  this  so  ? 
First  Witch.    Ay,  sir,  all  this  is  so :  but  why 
Stands  Macbeth  thus  amazedly  ? 
Come,  sisters,  cheer  we  up  his  sprites, 
And  show  the  best  of  our  delights  : 
I  '11  charm  the  air  to  give  a  sound, 
While  you  perform  your  antic  round  :  13« 

That  this  great  king  may  kindly  say, 
Our  duties  did  his  welcome  pay. 

[Music.     The  Witches  dance,  and  then  vanish,  with  Hecate. 

Macb.   Where  are   they?     Gone?     Let   this   per- 
nicious hour 
Stand  aye  accursed  in  the  calendar  J 
Come  in,  without  there ! 

Enter  Lennox. 

Len.  What 's  your  grace's  will  ? 

Macb.    Saw  you  the  weird  sisters  ? 

Len.  No,  my  lord. 

Macb.   Came  they  not  by  you  ? 

Len.  No,  indeed,  my  lord. 

Macb.   Infected  be  the  air  whereon  they  ride ; 
And  damn'd  all  those  that  trust  them !     I  did  hear 
The  galloping  of  horse  :  who  was  't  came  by  ?  i4o 

Len.    'T  is  two  or  three,  my  lord,  that  bring  you 
word 
Macduff  is  fled  to  England. 

Macb.  Fled  to  England ! 

Len.    Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Macb.   Time,  thou  anticipat'st  my  dread  exploits  .• 
The  flighty  purpose  never  is  o'ertook 

123.  blood-bolter'd.     "  Boltered  "  is  a  Warwickshire  word 
meaning  clotted,  coagulated. 


TO  MACBE TH.  [Act  IV. 

Unless  the  deed  go  with  it :  from  this  moment 

The  very  firstlings  of  my  heart  shall  be 

The  firstlings  of  my  hand.     And  even  now, 

To  crown  my  thoughts  with  acts,  be  it  thought  and 

done: 
The  castle  of  Macduff  I  will  surprise  ;  iso 

Seize  upon  Fife  ;  give  to  the  edge  o'  th'  sword 
His  wife,  his  babes,  and  all  unfortunate  souls 
That  trace  him  in  his  line.     No  boasting  like  a  fool ; 
This  deed  I  '11  do  before  this  purpose  cool. 
But  no  more  sights  !  —  Where  are  these  gentlemen? 
Come,  bring  me  where  they  are.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  II.     Fife.     Macduff's  castle, 
Enter  Lady  Macduff,  her  Son,  and  Koss. 

L.  Macd.   What  had  he  done,  to  make  him  fly  the 
land? 

Hoss.    You  must  have  patience,  madam. 

/y.  Macd.  He  had  none : 

His  flight  was  madness  :  when  our  actions  do  not, 
Our  fears  do  make  us  traitors. 

Eoss.  You  know  not 

Whether  it  was  iiis  wisdom  or  his  fear. 

L.  Macd.   Wisdom !  to  leave  his  wife,  to  leave  his 
babes, 
His  mansion  and  his  titles  m  a  place 
From  whence  himself  does  fly  ?     He  loves  us  not ; 
He  wants  the  natural  touch  :  for  the  poor  wren. 
The  most  diminutive  of  birds,  will  fight,  lo 

Her  young  ones  in  her  nest,  against  the  owl. 
All  is  the  fear  and  nothing  is  the  love ; 
As  little  is  the  wisdom,  where  the  flight 
So  runs  against  all  reason. 

153.  [trace  =  follow.]  9.  [touch  =  sensibility,  feeling.] 


I 


Scene  IL]  MACBETH.  71 

Hoss.  My  dearest  coz, 

I  pray  you,  school  yourself :  but  for  your  husband, 
He  is  noble,  wise,  judicious,  and  best  knows 
The  fits  o'  th'  season.     I  dare  not  speak  much  further ; 
But  cruel  a;:e  the  times,  when  we  are  traitors 
And  do  not  know  ourselves  ;  when  we  hold  rumour 
From  what  we  fear,  yet  know  not  what  we  fear,         20 
But  float  upon  a  wild  and  violent  sea 
And  each  way  move.     I  take  my  leave  of  you  : 
Shall  not  be  long  but  I  '11  be  here  again  ; 
Things  at  the  worst  will  cease,  or  else  climb  upward 
To  what  they  were  before.     My  pretty  cousin, 
Blessing  upon  you  ! 

Zf,  Macd.    Fathered  he  is,  and  yet  he  's  fatherless. 

jRoss.    I  am  so  much  a  fool,  should  I  stay  longer. 
It  would  be  my  disgrace  and  your  discomfort : 
I  take  my  leave  at  once.  [Exit 

L.  Macd.  Sirrah,  your  father 's  dead :  30 

And  what  will  you  do  now  ?     How  will  you  live  ? 

Son.    As  birds  do,  mother. 

Zf.  Macd.  What,  with  worms  and  flies? 

Son.    With  what  I  get,  I  mean ;  and  so  do  they. 

L.  Macd.   Poor  bird  !  thou  'dst  never  fear  the  net 
nor  lime, 
The  pitfall  nor  the  gin. 

Son.    Why  should  I,  mother  ?     Poor  birds  they  are 
not  set  for. 
My  father  is  not  dead,  for  all  your  saying. 

L.  Macd.   Yes,  he  is  dead  :  how  wilt  thou  do  for  » 
father  ? 

Son.  .Nay,  how  will  you  do  for  a  husband  ? 

17.  the  fits  o'  th'  season  =  what  suits  the  time. 
19.    [hold   rumour :    probably  equivalent  to   '*  believe  ru- 
mour."] 


72  MACBETH.  [Act  IV. 

L,  Macd,    Why,    I   can   buy   me   twenty   at   any 
market.  40 

Son.    Then  you  '11  buy  'em  to  sell  again. 

L.  Macd.   Thou  speak'st  with  all  thy  wit ;  and  yet, 
i'  faith, 
With  wit  enough  for  thee. 

Son.    Was  my  father  a  traitor,  mother  ? 

L.  Macd.    Ay,  that  he  was. 

Son.    What  is  a  traitor? 

L,  Macd.    Why,  one  that  swears  and  lies. 

Son.    And  be  all  traitors  that  do  so  ? 

L.  Macd.   Every  one  that  does  so  is  a  traitor,  and 
must  be  hang'd.  50 

Son.   And  must  they  all  be  hang'd  that  swear  and 
lie? 

L,  Macd,   Every  one. 

Son.    Who  must  hang  them  ? 

L.  Macd.    Why,  the  honest  men. 

Son.  Then  the  liars  and  swearers  are  fools;  for 
there  are  liars  and  swearers  enow  to  beat  the  honest 
men  and  hang  up  them. 

L.  Macd.   N0W5  God  help  thee,  poor  monkey  ! 
But  how  wilt  thou  do  for  a  father  ?  59 

Son.  If  he  were  dead,  you  'd  weep  for  him :  if  you 
wbuld  not,  it  were  a  good  sign  that  I  should  quickly 
have  a  new  father. 

L.  Macd.    Poor  prattler,  how  thou  talk'st ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.   Bless  you,   fair   dame !     I   am  not  to  you 
known. 
Though  in  your  state  of  honour  I  am  perfect. 
I  doubt  some  danger  does  approach  you  nearly : 

65.  your  state  of  honour  =  your  position  as  a  person  of 
honour,  of  rank. 


Scene  III.]  MACBETH.  73 

If  you  will  take  a  homely  man's  advice, 

Be  not  found  here ;  hence,  with  your  little  ones. 

To  fright  you  thus,  methinks,  I  am  too  savage ; 

To  do  worse  to  you  were  fell  cruelty,  70 

Which  is  too  nigh   your   person.     Heaven  preserve 

you! 
I  dare  abide  no  longer.  [Exit 

L.  Macd,  Whither  should  I  fly  ? 

I  have  done  no  harm.     But  I  remember  now 
I  am  in  this  earthly  world ;  where  to  do  harm 
Is  often  laudable,  to  do  good  sometime 
Accounted  dangerous  folly  :  why  then,  alas,  • 

Do  I  put  up  that  womanly  defence. 
To  say  I  have  done  no  harm  ? 

Enter  Murderers. 

What  are  these  faces  ? 
JFirst  Mur.    Where  is  your  husband  ? 
L.  Macd.    I  hope,  in  no  place  so  unsanctified         so 
W^here  such  as  thou  mayst  find  him. 

First  Mur.  He  's  a  traitor. 

Son.    Thou  liest,  thou  shag-hair'd  villain  ! 

First  Mur.  What,  you  ^g'g ! 

[Stabbing  him. 

Young  fry  of  treachery ! 

So7i.  He  has  kilFd  me,  mother  : 

Run  away,  I  pray  you !  •  [Dies. 

[Exit  Lady  Macduff,  crying  "  Murder !  "    Exeunt  Murderers,  follow- 
ing her. 

Scene  in.     England.     Before  the  ^i^g's  palace. 
Enter    Ialcolm  and  Macduff. 

Mai.   Let  us  seek   out   some  desolate  shade,  and 
there 
Weep  our  sad  bosoms  empty. 


\l 


VI  MACBETH.  [Act  IV. 

Macd.  Let  us  rather 

Hold  fast  the  mortal  sword,  and  like  good  men 
Bestride  our  down-f all'n  birthdom  :  each  new  mom 
New  widows  howl,  new  orphans  cry,  new  sorrows 
Strike  heaven  on  the  face,  that  it  resounds 
As  if  it  felt  with  Scotland  and  yell'd  out 
Like  syllable  of  dolour. 

MaL  What  I  believe  I  '11  wail, 

What  know  believe,  and  what  I  can  redress, 
As  I  shall  find  the  time  to  friend,  I  will.  ik 

What  you  have  spoke,  it  may  be  so  perchance. 
This  tyrant,  whose  sole  name  blisters  our  tongues. 
Was  once  thought  honest :  you  have  loved  him  well. 
He  hath   not   touch'd   you   yet.     I   am   young;  but 

something 
You  may  deserve  of  him  through  me,  and  wisdom 
To  offer  up  a  weak  poor  innocent  lamb 
To  appease  an  angry  god. 

Macd.   I  am  not  treacherous. 

Mat,  But  Macbeth  is. 

A  good  and  virtuous  nature  may  recoil 
In  an  imperial  charge.     But  I  shall  crave  your  par- 
don ;  » 
That  which  you  are  my  thoughts  cannot  transpose : 
Angels  are  bright  still,  though  the  brightest  fell : 
Though  all  things  foul  would  wear  the  brows  of  grace, 
Yet  grace  must  still  look  so. 

Macd.  I  have  lost  my  hopes. 

4.  birthdom  =:  country  and  government  in  which  we  have  a 
birthright. 

15.  and  wisdom,  etc.:  carelessly  written  for  "and  you  may 
have  wisdom  enough." 

19.  recoil  =  yield,  succumb. 

20.  [In  an  imperial  charge  :  "  in  the  executioa  of  a  royal 
commission."     Dr.  Johnson.] 


Scene  III.]  MACBETH.  75 

Mai.   Perchance  even  there  where  I  did  find  my 
doubts. 
Why  in  that  rawness  left  you  wife  and  child, 
Those  precious  motives,  those  strong  knots  of  love, 
Without  leave-taking  ?     I  pray  you, 
Let  not  my  jealousies  be  your  dishonours. 
But  mine  own  safeties.     You  may  be  rightly  just,      30 
Whatever  I  shall  think. 

Macd.  Bleed,  bleed,  poor  country  ? 

Great  tyranny  !  lay  thou  thy  basis  sure. 
For   goodness  dare  not   check   thee :  wear  thou  thy 

wrongs ; 
The  title  is  aff eer'd  !     Fare  thee  well,  lord : 
I  would  not  be  the  villain  that  thou  think'st 
For  the  whole  space  that 's  in  the  tyrant's  grasp, 
And  the  rich  East  to  boot. 

MaL  Be  not  offended : 

I  speak  not  as  in  absolute  fear  of  you. 
I  think  our  country  sinks  beneath  the  yoke ; 
It  weeps,  it  bleeds  ;  and  each  new  day  a  gash  m 

Is  added  to  her  wounds :  I  think  withal 
There  would  be  hands  uplifted  in  my  right ; 
And  here  from  gracious  England  have  I  offer 
Of  goodly  thousands  :  but,  for  all  this. 
When  I  shall  tread  upon  the  tyrant's  head, 
Or  wear  it  on  my  sword,  yet  my  poor  country 
Shall  have  more  vices  than  it  had  before. 
More  suft'er  and  more  sundry  ways  than  ever, 
By  him  that  shall  succeed. 

Macd.  What  should  he  be  ? 

Mai.    It  is  myself  I  mean  :  in  whom  I  know  ji 

All  the  particulars  of  vice  so  grafted 
That,  when  they  shall  be  open'd,  black  Macbeth 
34.  affeer'd  =  confirmed,  made  sure. 


76  MA  CBE  TH.  [Act  IV. 

Will  seem  as  pure  as  snow,  and  the  poor  state 
Esteem  him  as  a  lamb,  being  compared 
With  my  confineless  harms. 

Macd,  Not  in  the  legions 

Of  horrid  hell  can  come  a  devil  more  damn'd 
In  evils  to  top  Macbeth. 

Mai,  I  grant  him  bloody, 

Luxurious,  avaricious,  false,  deceitful, 
Sudden,  malicious,  smacking  of  every  sin 
That  has  a  name  :  but  there  's  no  bottom,  none,         eo 
In  my  voluptuousness  :  your  wives,  your  daughters, 
Your  matrons  and  your  maids,  could  not  fill  up 
The  cistern  of  my  lust,  and  my  desire 
All  continent  impediments  would  o'erbear 
That  did  oppose  my  will :  better  Macbeth 
Than  such  an  one  to  reign. 

Macd.  Boundless  intemperance 

In  nature  is  a  tyranny  ;  it  hath  been 
The  untimely  emptying  of  the  happy  throne 
And  fall  of  many  kings.     But  fear  not  yet 
To  take  upon  you  what  is  yours  :  you  may  "K 

Convey  your  pleasures  in  a  spacious  plenty, 
And  yet  seem  cold,  the  time  you  may  so  hoodwink. 
We  have  willing  dames  enough  :  there  cannot  be 
That  vulture  in  you,  to  devour  so  many 
As  will  to  greatness  dedicate  themselves. 
Finding  it  so  inclined. 

58.  Luxurious  =  intemperately  amorous  :  always  used  thus 
by  Shakespeare. 

71.  Convey  your  pleasures,  etc.  Forced  as  the  sense  is, 
we  must  accept  this  as  meaning,  enjoy  secretly  your  pleasures, 
Shakespeare  heedlessly  used  the  word  that  he  here  caught  from 
Holinshed,  who  makes  Macdulf  reply,  "And  I  shall  convey  the 
matter  so  wisely  that  thou  shalt  be  so  satisfied  at  thy  pleasure 
in  such  secret  wise,"  etc. 


Scene  III.]  MACBETH.  77 

MaL  With  this  there  grows 

In  my  most  ill-compos'd  affection  such 
A  stanchless  avarice  that,  were  I  king, 
I  should  cut  off  the  nobles  for  their  lands, 
Desire  his  jewels  and  this  other's  house :  W 

And  my  more-having  would  be  as  a  sauce 
To  make  me  hunger  more  ;  that  I  should  forge 
Quarrels  unjust  against  the  good  and  loyal, 
Destroying  them  for  wealth. 

Macd,  This  avarice 

Sticks  deeper,  grows  with  more  pernicious  root 
Than  summer-seeming  lust,  and  it  hath  been 
The  sword  of  our  slain  kings  :  yet  do  not  fear ; 
Scotland  hath  foisons  to  fill  up  your  will, 
Of  your  mere  own :  all  these  are  portable. 
With  other  graces  weigh'd.  9« 

Mai.    But  I  have  none  :  the  king-becoming  graces. 
As  justice,  verity,  temperance,  stableness, 
Bounty,  perseverance,  mercy,  lowliness, 
Devotion,  patience,  courage,  fortitude, 
I  have  no  relish  of  them,  but  abound 
In  the  division  of  each  several  crime, 
Acting  it  many  ways.     Nay,  had  I  power,  I  should 
Pour  the  sweet  milk  of  concord  into  hell. 
Uproar  the  universal  peace,  confound 
All  unity  on  earth. 

Macd.  O  Scotland,  Scotland !  iw 

Mai.   If  such  an  one  be  fit  to  govern,  speak : 
I  am  as  I  have  spoken. 

77.  [afiFection  =  disposition.] 

86.  summer-seeming  =  passing  like  summer,  hot  and  short 

88.  foisons  ==:  plenty  ;  rare  in  the  plural. 

89.  portable  =  bearable. 

93.  perseverance ;  accented  on  the  second  syllable. 


IS  MACBETH.  [ActIVo 

3facd,  Fit  to  govern ! 

No,  not  to  live.     O  nation  miserable, 
With  an  untitled  tyrant  bloody-scepter'd, 
When  shalt  thou  see  thy  wholesome  days  again, 
Since  that  the  truest  issue  of  thy  throne 
By  his  own  interdiction  stands  accurs'd. 
And  does  blaspheme  his  breed  ?     Thy  royal  father 
Was  a  most  sainted  king :  the  queen  that  bore  thee, 
Oftener  upon  her  knees  than  on  her  feet,  uo 

Died  every  day  she  lived.  —  Fare  thee  well ! 
These  evils  thou  repeat'st  upon  thyself 
Have  banish'd  me  from  Scotland.     O  my  breast, 
Thy  hope  ends  here ! 

MaL  Macduff,  this  noble  passion, 

Child  of  integrity,  hath  from  my  soul 
Wiped  the  black  scruples,  reconciled  my  thoughts 
To  thy  good  truth  and  honour.     Devilish  Macbeth 
By  many  of  these  trains  hath  sought  to  win  me 
Into  his  power,  and  modest  wisdom  plucks  me 
From  over-credulous  haste  :  but  God  above  IfH 

Deal  between  thee  and  me !  for  even  now 
I  put  myself  to  thy  direction,  and 
Unspeak  mine  own  detraction  ;  here  abjure 
The  taints  and  blames  I  laid  upon  myself. 
For  strangers  to  my  nature.     I  am  yet 
Unknown  to  woman,  never  was  forsworn, 
Scarcely  have  coveted  what  was  mine  own, 
At  no  time  broke  my  faith,  would  not  betray 
The  Devil  to  his  fellow,  and  delight 
No  less  in  truth  than  life  :  my  first  false  speaking    13» 
Was  this  upon  myself :  what  I  am  truly. 
Is  thine  and  my  poor  country's  to  command : 
Whither  indeed,  before  thy  here-approach, 
108.  blaspheme  =  slander. 


Scene  III.]  MA  CBETH.  79 

Old  Siward,  with  ten  thousand  warlike  men, 
Already  at  a  point,  was  setting  forth. 
Now  we  '11  together  ;  and  the  chance  of  goodness 
Be  like  our  warranted  quarrel !     Why  are  you  silent  ? 
Macd.    Such   welcome   and   unwelcome   things   at 
once 
'T  is  hard  to  reconcile. 

Enter  a  Doctor. 

Mai.   Well ;  more  anon.  —  Comes  the  King  forth, 
I  pray  you  ?  i40 

DocU   Ay,  sir  ;  there  are  a  crew  of  wretched  souls 
That  stay  his  cure  :  their  malady  convinces 
The  great  assay  of  art ;  but  at  his  touch  — 
Such  sanctity  hath  heaven  given  his  hand  — 
^    They  presently  amend. 
r        Mai.  I  thank  you,  doctor.    [Exit  Doctor* 

Macd.   What 's  the  disease  he  means  ? 

Mai.  'Tiscall'dtheevil: 

A  most  miraculous  work  in  this  good  king ; 
Which  often,  since  my  here-remain  in  England, 
I  have  seen  him  do.     How  he  solicits  heaven, 
Himself  best  knows :  but  strangely- visited  people,    iso 
All  swoll'n  and  ulcerous,  pitiful  to  the  eye, 
The  mere  despair  of  surgery,  he  cures, 
Hanging  a  golden  stamp  about  their  necks, 
Put  on  with  holy  prayers  :  and  't  is  spoken, 
To  the  succeeding  royalty  he  leaves 
The  healing  benediction^     With  this  strange  virtue, 
He  hath  a  heavenly  gift  of  prophecy. 
And  sundry  blessings  hang  about  his  throne, 

IThat  speak  him  full  of  grace. 
135.  at  a  point  =  ready  ;  as  in  the  phrase  "  on  the  point  of 
doing  it." 
142.  convinces  =  overcomes,  as  in  Act  I.  Sc.  7,  line  64. 
152.  [mere  =  utter.] 


^0  MACBETH.  [Act  IV. 

Enter  Boss. 

Macd,  See,  who  comes  here  ? 

Mai,    My  countryman ;  but  yet  I  know  him  not.  leo 

Macd,   My  ever-gentle  cousin,  welcome  hither. 

Mai,    I  know  him  now.     Good  God,  betimes  re- 
move 
fhe  means  that  makes  us  strangers ! 

B,08S,  Sir,  amen. 

Macd,    Stands  Scotland  where  it  did  ? 

Moss,  Alas,  poor  country ! 

Almost  afraid  to  know  itself.     It  cannot 
Be  call'd  our  mother,  but  our  grave ;  where  nothing, 
But  who  knows  nothing,  is  once  seen  to  smile ; 
Where  sighs  and  groans  and  shrieks  that  rend  the  air 
Are  made,  not  mark'd ;  where  violent  sorrow  seems 
A  modern  ecstasy :  the  dead  man's  knell  no 

Is  there  scarce  ask'd  for  who  :  and  good  men's  lives 
Expire  before  the  flowers  in  their  caps. 
Dying  or  ere  they  sicken. 

Macd,  O,  relation 

Too  nice,  and  yet  too  true  ! 

Mai,  What 's  the  newest  grief  ? 

Hoss,  That  of  an  hour's  age  doth  hiss  the  speaker : 
Each  minute  teems  a  new  one. 

Macd,  How  does  my  wife  ? 

Jioss,   Why,  well. 

Macd,  And  all  my  children  ? 

Hoss,  Well  too. 

Macd,   The  tyrant  has  not  batter'd  at  their  peace  ? 

170.  [modern  =  trite,  common.  On  ecstasy  see  note,  Act 
III.  Sc.  2,  line  22.] 

174.  Too  nice  =  too  particular. 

177.  children:  pronounced  cAiWeren,  of  which  it  is  a  contrae- 
tion.     It  is  a  double  plural. 


Scene  IlLJ  MACBETH,  81 

Hoss,   No ;  they  were  well  at  peace  when  I  did 
leave  'em. 

Macd,   Be   not   a  niggard   of  your   speech:    how 
goes  't  ?  180 

Hoss.    When  I  came  hither  to  transport  the  tidings, 
Which  I  have  heavily  borne,  there  ran  a  rumour 
Of  many  worthy  fellows  that  were  out ; 
Which  was  to  my  belief  witness'd  the  rather, 
For  that  I  saw  the  tyrant's  power  a-foot : 
Now  is  the  time  of  help  ;  your  eye  in  Scotland 
Would  create  soldiers,  make  our  women  fight, 
To  doff  their  dire  distresses. 

MaL  Be 't  their  comfort 

We  're  coming  thither  :  gracious  England  hath 
Lent  us  good  Siward  and  ten  thousand  men ;  i9« 

An  older  and  a  better  soldier  none 
That  Christendom  gives  out. 

Hoss,  Would  I  could  answer 

This  comfort  with  the  like !     But  I  have  words 
That  would  be  howl'd  out  in  the  desert  air, 
Where  hearing  should  not  latch  them. 

Macd,  What  concern  they? 

The  general  cause  ?  or  is  it  a  fee-grief 
Due  to  some  single  breast? 

Boss.  No  mind  that 's  honest 

But  in  it  shares  some  woe ;  though  the  main  part 
Pertains  to  you  alone. 

Macd,  If  it  be  mine, 

Keep  it  not  from  me,  quickly  let  me  have  it.  200 

Hoss.   Let  not  your  ears  despise  my  tongue  for  ever, 

183.  that  were  out  =  in  the  field. 

195.  latch  =  catch,  apprehend. 

196.  fee-grief  =  a  grief  held  in  fee;  the  absolute  property  of 
some  one. 


82  MA CBETH.  [Act  IV.  Sc.  IIL 

Whicli  shall  possess  them  with  the  heaviest  sound 
That  ever  yet  they  heard. 

Macd.  Hum !  I  guess  at  it. 

Hoss,   Your   castle   is   surprised;   your   wife   and 
babes 
Savagely  slaughter'd :  to  relate  the  manner. 
Were,  on  the  quarry  of  these  murder'd  deer, 
To  add  the  death  of  you. 

MaL  Merciful  heaven ! 

What,  man  !  ne'er  pull  your  hat  upon  your  brows ; 
Give  sorrow  words  :  the  grief  that  does  not  speak 
Whispers  the  o'er-fraught  heart  and  bids  it  break,    ad 

Macd,   My  children  too  ? 

Moss.  Wife,  children,  servants,  all 

That  could  be  found. 

Macd,  And  I  must  be  from  thence ! 

My  wife  kilFd  too  ? 

Ross.  I  have  said. 

MaL  Be  comforted : 

Let 's  make  us  medicines  of  our  great  revenge. 
To  cure  this  deadly  grief. 

Macd.    He  has  no  children.     All  my  pretty  ones  ? 
Did  you  say  all?     O  heU-kite  !     All? 
What,  all  my  pretty  chickens  and  their  dam 
At  one  fell  swoop  ? 

MaL   Dispute  it  like  a  man. 

Macd,  I  shall  do  so ;  221 

But  I  must  also  feel  it  as  a  man  : 
I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were. 
That  were  most  precious  to  me.     Did  heaven  look  on, 
And  would  not  take  their  part  ?     Sinful  Macduff, 
They  were  all  struck  for  thee  !  naught  that  I  am, 

206.  quarry = slaughtered  heap. 

220.  dispute  =  contend  with,  bear  up  against. 


Act  V.  Sc.  I.]  MA CBETH.  83 

Not  for  their  own  demerits,  but  for  mine, 

Fell  slaughter  on  their  souls.     Heaven  rest  them  now ! 

Mai.    Be  this  the  whetstone  of  your  sword  :  let  grief 
Convert  to  anger  ;  blunt  not  the  heart,  enrage  it.      229 

Macd,    O,  I  could  play  the  woman  with  mine  eyes 
And  braggart  with  my  tongue  !     But,  gentle  heavens. 
Cut  short  all  intermission  ;  front  to  front 
Bring  thou  this  fiend  of  Scotland  and  myseK ; 
Within  my  sword's  length  set  him  ;  if  he  'scape, 
Heaven  forgive  him  too  I 

Mai.  This  tune  goes  manly. 

Come,  go  we  to  the  King ;  our  power  is  ready ; 
Our  lack  is  nothing  but  our  leave  :  Macbeth 
Is  ripe  for  shaking,  and  the  powers  above 
Put  on  their  instruments.     Receive  what  cheer  you 
may :  239 

The  night  is  long  that  never  finds  the  day.         {Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

Scene   I.     Dunsinane.     Anteroom  in  the  castle. 
Enter  a  Doctor  of  Physic  and  a  Waiting  Gentlewoman. 

Doct.  I  have  two  nights  watch'd  with  you,  but  can 
perceive  no  truth  in  your  report.  When  was  it  she 
last  walk'd  ? 

Gent.  Since  his  majesty  went  into  the  field,  I  have 
seen  her  rise  from  her  bed,  throw  her  nightgown  upon 

238,  239.  [the  powers  above  Put  on  their  instruments. 
A  passage  of  importance  in  the  moral  scheme  of  the  play.  Stee- 
vens  explains  it  :  "  thrust  forward  us,  their  instruments,  against 
the  tyrant."  He  adds  an  illuminating  quotation  from  Chapman's 
Iliad:  "For  Jove  makes  Trojans  instruments,  and  virtually  then 
Wields  arms  himself."] 

5.  night-gown  =  dressing  gown,  bedchamber  gowij. 


84  MA  CBETH.  [Act  V. 

her,  unlock  her  closet,  take  forth  paper,  fold  it,  write 
upon  't,  read  it,  afterwards  seal  it,  and  again  return 
to  bed  ;  yet  all  this  while  in  a  most  fast  sleep. 

Doct.  A  great  perturbation  in  nature,  to  receive  at 
once  the  benefit  of  sleep,  and  do  the  effects  of  watch- 
ing! In  this  slumb'ry  agitation,  besides  her  walking 
and  other  actual  performances,  what,  at  any  time, 
have  you  heard  her  say  ?  13 

Gent.    That,  sir,  which  I  will  not  report  after  her. 

Doct,  You  may  to  me ;  and  't  is  most  meet  you 
should. 

Gent,  Neither  to  you  nor  any  one  ;  having  no  wit- 
ness to  confirm  my  speech. 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth,  with  a  taper. 
Lo  you,  here  she  comes  !    This  is  her  very  guise  ;  and, 
upon  my  life,  fast  asleep.     Observe  her ;  stand  close. 

Doct,   How  came  she  by  that  light  ? 

Gent,  Why,  it  stood  by  her  ;  she  has  light  by  her 
continually  ;  't  is  her  command.  23 

Doct,   You  see,  her  eyes  are  open. 

Gent,   Ay,  but  their  sense  are  shut. 

Doct,  What  is  it  she  does  now  ?  Look,  how  she 
rubs  her  hands. 

Gent,  It  is  an  accustomed  action  with  her,  to  seem 
thus  washing  her  hands  :  I  have  known  her  continue 
in  this  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  30 

Lady  M,    Yet  here  's  a  spot. 

Doct,   Hark !  she   speaks :    I  will   set  down  what 

19.  [her  very  guise  :  her  accustomed  manner.] 
25.  their  sense  are  shut.  Shakespeare  should  have  written 
*  is  shut ; "  but  there  is  no  evidence  that  he  did ;  and  I  feel  sure 
that  he  did  not.  [Walker  notes  that  plurals  of  nouns  ending  in 
?,  sSy  se,  and  ce  are  found  without  the  usual  addition  of  s  or  es^ 
Compare  Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  IV.  Sc.  1:  "Are  there  bal- 
ance here  ?^'*] 


Scene  L]  MACBETH.  86 

comes  from  her,  to  satisfy  my  remembrance  the  more 
strongly. 

Lady  M,  Out,  damned  spot !  out,  I  say  !  —  One  : 
two :  why,  then  't  is  time  to  do  't.  —  Hell  is  murky  ! 

—  Fie,  my  lord,  fie  !  a  soldier,  and  afeard  ?  What 
need  we  fear  who  knows  it,  when  none  can  call  our 
power  to  account  ?  —  Yet  who  would  have  thought  the 
old  man  to  have  had  so  much  blood  in  him.  4o 

Doct.    Do  you  mark  that  ? 

Lady  M,  The  thane  of  Fife  had  a  wife :  where  is 
she  now  ?  —  What,  will  these  hands  ne'er  be  clean  ? 

—  No  more  o'  that,  my  lord,  no  more  o'  that :  you 
mar  all  with  this  starting. 

Doct.  Go  to,  go  to ;  you  have  known  what  you 
should  not. 

Gent,  She  has  spoke  what  she  should  not,  I  am 
sure  of  that :  heaven  knows  what  she  has  known.      49 

Lady  M,  Here  's  the  smell  of  the  blood  still :  all 
the  perfumes  of  Arabia  will  not  sweeten  this  little 
hand.     Oh,  oh,  oh  ! 

Doct,  What  a  sigh  is  there  !  The  heart  is  sorely 
charged. 

Gent,  I  would  not  have  such  a  heart  in  my  bosom 
for  the  dignity  of  the  whole  body. 

Doct,    Well,  well,  well,  — 

Gent,    Pray  God  it  be,  sir.  ei 

Doct,  This  disease  is  beyond  my  practice  :  yet  I 
have  known  those  which  have  walk'd  in  their  sleep 
who  have  died  holily  in  their  beds. 

Lady  M.  Wash  your  hands,  put  on  your  night- 
gown ;  look  not  so  pale.  —  I  tell  you  yet  again.  Ban- 
quo  's  buried  ;  he  cannot  come  out  on  's  grave. 

Doct,   Even  so  ? 

Lady  M,   To  bed,  to  bed  I  there  's  knocking  at  the 


86  MACBETH.  [ActV. 

gate  :  come,  come,  come,  come,  give  me  your  hand. 
What 's  done  cannot  be  undone.  —  To  bed,  to  bed,  to 
bed !  [Exit 

Doct.    Will  she  go  now  to  bed  ?  70 

Gent.    Directly. 

Doct.  Foul  whisp'rings  are  abroad  :  unnatural  deeds 
Do  breed  unnatural  troubles  :  infected  minds 
To  their  deaf  pillows  will  discharge  their  secrets : 
More  needs  she  the  divine  than  the  physician. 
God,  God  forgive  us  all !     Look  after  her  ; 
Remove  from  her  the  means  of  all  annoyance. 
And  still  keep  eyes  upon  her.     So,  good  night : 
My  mind  she  has  mated,  and  amazed  my  sight. ,        79 
I  think,  but  dare  not  speak. 

Gent.  Good.night,  good  doctor.  [Exeunt 

Scene  II.  The  country  near  Dunsinane. 

Brum  and  colours.     Enter  Menteith,  Caithness,  Angus,  Lennox, 
and  Soldiers. 

Ment.   The  English  power  is  near,  led  on  by  Mal- 
colm, 
His  uncle  Siward  and  the  good  Macduff : 
Revenges  burn  in  them  ;  for  their  dear  causes 
Would  to  the  bleeding  and  the  grim  alarm 
Excite  the  mortified  man. 

Ang.  Near  Birnam  wood 

Shall  we  well  meet  them ;  that  way  are  they  coming. 
Caith.   Who   knows    if    Donalbain    be   with    his 
brother  ? 

77.  annoyance  =  self-injury. 

79.  mated  =1  dazed,  dumf ounded. 

5.  the  mortified  man  =  the  ascetic,  the  man  who  has  morti- 
fied his  flesh.  [It  is  also  explained  as  "the  dead  man;"  and 
bleeding  is  referred  to  the  superstition  that  the  wounds  of  a 
murdered  man  bled  in  the  presence  of  his  murderer.] 


Scene  n.]  MACBETH,  87 

Len,    For  certain,  sir,  he  is  not :  I  have  a  file 
Of  all  the  gentry  :  there  is  Siward's  son, 
And  many  unrough  youths  that  even  now  M 

Protest  their  first  of  manhood. 

Ment.  What  does  the  tyrant '( 

Caiih,   Great  Dttnsinane  he  strongly  fortifies : 
Some  say  he 's  mad  ;  others  that  lesser  hate  him 
Do  call  it  valiant  fury :  but,  for  certain. 
He  cannot  buckle  his  distemper'd  cause 
Within  the  belt  of  rule. 

Ang.  Now  does  he  feel 

His  secret  murthers  sticking  on  his  hands  ; 
Now  minutely  revolts  upbraid  his  faith-breach ; 
Those  he  commands  move  only  in  command, 
Nothing  in  love :  now  does  he  feel  his  title  a 

Hang  loose  about  him,  like  a  giant's  robe 
Upon  a  dwarfish  thief. 

Ment.  Who  then  shall  blame 

His  pester'd  senses  to  recoil  and  start, 
When  all  that  is  within  him  does  condemn 
Itself  for  being  there  ? 

CaitJi.  Well,  march  we  on. 

To  give  obedience  where  't  is  truly  owed : 
Meet  we  the  medicine  of  the  sickly  weal. 
And  with  him  pour  we  in  our  country's  purge 
Each  drop  of  us. 

Len,  Or  so  much  as  it  needs. 

To  dew  the  sovereign  flower  and  drown  the  weeds,    sq 
Make  we  our  march  towards  Birnam.    [Exeunt,  marching^ 

10.  unrough  =  unbearded. 

27.  medicine  =  healing  remedy;  not  the  French  medecin 
= leech,  physician.  Shakespeare  never  uses  the  word  in  that 
sense. 


88  MA  CBETH.  [Act  V. 

Scene  III.     Dunsinane.     A  room  in  the  castle. 
Enter  Macbeth,  Doctor,  and  Attendants. 
Mach.    Bring  me  no  more  reports  ;  let  them  fly  all : 
Till  Bimam  wood  remove  to  Dunsinane, 
I  cannot  taint  with  fear.     What 's  the  boy  Malcolm  ? 
Was  he  not  born  of  woman  ?     The  spirits  that  know 
All  mortal  consequences  have  pronounced  me  thus : 
"  Fear  not,  Macbeth ;  no  man  that 's  born  of  woman 
Shall  e'er  have  power  upon  thee."     Then  fly,  false 

thanes. 
And  mingle  with  the  English  epicures : 
The  mind  I  sway  by  and  the  heart  I  bear 
Shall  never  sag  with  doubt  nor  shake  with  fear.         i« 

JEnter  a  Servant. 

The  Devil  damn  thee  black,  thou  cream-faced  loon ! 
Where  got'st  thou  that  goose  look  ? 

Serv.   There  is  ten  thousand  — 

Mach.  Geese,  villain  ? 

Serv,  Soldiers,  sir. 

Mach,   Go  prick  thy  face,  and  over-red  thy  fear, 
Thou  lily-liver'd  boy.     What  soldiers,  patch  ? 
Death  of  thy  soul !  those  linen  cheeks  of  thine 
Are  counsellors  to  fear.     What  soldiers,  whey-face  ? 

Serv.   The  English  force,  so  please  you. 

Mach,   Take  thy  face  hence.  [Exit  Servant. 

Seyton  !  —  I  am  sick  at  heart. 
When  I  behold  —  Seyton,  I  say !  —  This  push  20 

Will  chair  me  ever,  or  disseat  me  now. 

15.  patch  =  fool.  Jesters  wore  patched  or  party-colored 
clothes. 

21.  "Wm  chair  me:  the  folio  "cheer  me."  [The  first  folio 
reads  "dis-eate;"  the  other  folios  "disease,"  which  Dr.  Fur- 
Qess  plausibly  makes  "  dis-ease.' '   This  reading  would  manifestly 


Scene  III.]  MACBETH,  89 

I  have  lived  long  enough :  my  way  o£  life 
Is  fall'n  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf ; 
And  that  which  should  accompany  old  age, 
As  honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 
I  must  not  look  to  have ;  but,  in  their  stead, 
Curses,  not  loud  but  deep,  mouth-honour,  breath, 
Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  and  dare  not. 
Seyton ! 

Enter  Seyton. 

Sey.    What  is  your  gracious  pleasure  ? 

Macb,  What  news  more  ?  so 

Sey.    All  is  confirmed,  my  lord,  which  was  reported. 

Macb,   I  '11  fight  till  from  my  bones  my  flesh  be 
hack'd. 
Give  me  my  armour. 

Sey,  'T  is  not  needed  yet. 

Macb,   I  '11  put  it  on. 
Send  out  more  horses  ;  skirr  the  country  round ; 
Hang  those  that  talk  of  fear.     Give  me  mine  armour. 
How  does  your  patient,  doctor  ? 

Doct.  Not  so  sick,  my  lord, 

As  she  is  troubled  with  thick-coming  fancies, 
That  keep  her  from  her  rest. 

Macb.  Cure  her  of  that. 

Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased, 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow, 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain 
And  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote 
Cleanse  the  stuff'd  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 
Which  weighs  upon  the  heart  ? 

accompany  "cheer."  "Cheer  .  .  .  dis-ease "  may  perhaps  be 
preferred,  as  having  relation  to  one  of  the  essential  metaphors 
of  the  play.     See  Suggestions  for  Special  Study.] 

22.  my  way  of  life.     Dr.  Johnson  proposed  "  my  May  of 
life,"  very  speciously. 


k 


90.  MACBETH.  [ActV. 

Doct  Therein  the  patient 

Must  minister  to  himself. 

Macb.    Throw  physic  to  the  dogs  ;  I  '11  none  of  it. 
Come,  put  mine  armour  on ;  give  me  my  staff. 
Seyton,  send  out.     Doctor,  the  thanes  fly  from  me. 
Gome,  sir,  dispatch.     If  thou  couldst,  doctor,  cast      50 
The  water  of  my  land,  find  her  disease. 
And  purge  it  to  a  sound  and  pristine  health, 
I  would  applaud  thee  to  the  very  echo. 
That  should  applaud  again.  — Pull 't  off,  I  say.  — 
What  rhubarb,  senna,  or  what  purgative  drug. 
Would  scour  these  English  hence  ?     Hear'st  thou  of 
them? 

Doct.    Ay,  my  good  lord ;  your  royal  preparation 
Makes  us  hear  something. 

Macb.  Bring  it  after  me. 

I  will  not  be  afraid  of  death  and  bane, 
Till  Birnam  forest  come  to  Dunsinane.  eo 

Doct,     [^sic?e.]     Were  I   from   Dunsinane  away 
and  clear, 
Profit  again  should  hardly  draw  me  here.  \Exeunt. 

Scene  IV.     Country  near  Birnam  wood. 

Drum  and  colours.  Enter  Malcolm,  old  Siward  and  his  Son,  Mac- 
duff, Menteith,  Caithness,  Angus,  Lennox,  Ross,  and  Sol- 
diers, marching. 

Mai.   Cousins,  I  hope  the  days  are  near  at  hand 
That  chambers  will  be  safe. 

48.  staff  =:  leading  staff,  baton. 

49.  Doctor,  etc.  Macbeth  addresses  this  speech  fitfully,  now 
to  the  physician,  and  now  to  the  attendant  who  is  putting  on  his 
irmor. 

61,  62.  These  lines  are  surely  a  tag  added  to  please  the  actor 
who  played  the  doctor. 

2.  chambers  =  bedrooms. 


Scene  V.]  MACBETH,  91 

Ment.  We  doubt  it  nothing. 

Siw»    What  wood  is  this  before  us  ? 

Ment.  The  wood  of  Birnam. 

Mai.   Let  every  soldier  hew  him  down  a  bough 
And  bear 't  before  him  :  thereby  shall  we  shadow 
The  numbers  of  our  host  and  make  discovery 
Err  in  report  of  us. 

Soldiers.  It  shall  be  done. 

Siw.  We  learn  no  other  but  the  confident  tyrant 
Keeps  still  in  Dunsinane,  and  will  endure 
Our  setting  down  before  't. 

Mai.  'T  is  his  main  hope  :      lo 

For  where  there  is  advantage  to  be  gain'd, 
Both  more  and  less  have  given  him  the  revolt, 
And  none  serve  with  him  but  constrained  things 
Whose  hearts  are  absent  too. 

Macd.  Let  our  just  censures 

Attend  the  true  event,  and  put  we  on 
Industrious  soldiership. 

Siw.  The  time  approaches 

That  will  with  due  decision  make  us  know 
What  we  shall  say  we  have  and  what  we  owe. 
Thoughts  speculative  their  unsure  hopes  relate. 
But  certain  issue  strokes  must  arbitrate  :  20 

Towards  which  advance  the  war.  {Exeunt,  marching. 

Scene  V.     Dunsinane.      Within  the  castle. 
Enter  Macbeth,  Seyton,  and  Soldiers,  with  drum  and  colours. 

Macb.     Hang   out   our   banners   on    the   outward 
walls  ; 
The  cry  is  still  "  They  come  :  "  our  castle's  strength 
Will  laugh  a  siege  to  scorn  :  here  let  them  lie 
Till  famine  and  the  ague  eat  them  up : 

12.  more  and  less  =  great  and  small,  everybody. 


92 :  MA  CBETK  [Act  V. 

Were  they  not  forced  with  those  that  should  be  ours, 
We  might  have  met  them  dareful,  beard  to  beard, 
And  beat  them  backward  home.       \_A  cry  of  women  toitUn. 

What  is  that  noise  ? 

Sey.    It  is  the  cry  of  women,  my  good  lord.      [Exit. 

Macb,    I  have  almost  forgot  the  taste  of  fears  : 
The  time  has  been,  my  senses  would  have  cooFd         lo 
To  hear  a  night-shriek ;  and  my  fell  of  hair 
Would  at  a  dismal  treatise  rouse  and  stir 
As  life  were  in 't :  I  have  supp'd  full  with  horrors ; 
Direness,  familiar  to  my  slaughterous  thoughts. 
Cannot  once  start  me. 

Be-enter  Seyton. 

Wherefore  was  that  cry  ? 

Sey,    The  Queen,  my  lord,  is* dead. 

Macb,    She  should  have  died  hereafter ; 
There  would  have  been  a  time  for  such  a  word. 
To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day  » 

To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time. 
And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  dusty  death.     Out,  out,  brief  candle  I 
Life  's  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player 
That,  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage 

5.  forced = given  strength,  reinforced. 

17.  [She  should  have  died  hereafter  =  it  was  ordained 
that  she  should  die,  hereafter,  if  not  now  ;  it  had  to  be,  at  some 
time.  It  is  usual  to  deliver  this  passage  with  emotion,  as  if  it 
meant  "  she  ought  not  to  have  died  now."  Nothing  could  be 
farther  from  the  apathetic  spirit  of  the  entire  scene.  If  we 
insist  upon  making  should  have  equivalent  to  "  ought  to  have," 
the  sentence  must  be  taken  merely  as  the  reflection,  "  She  dies 
before  her  time  ;  "  not  as  the  cry  of  need,  "  I  cannot  spare  her 
now  ! "  Sir  Henry  Irving  is  so  anxious  to  convey  the  proper 
impression  here,  that  he  says  "  would  have  died.  "3 


Scene  v.]  MACBETH.  93 

And  then  is  heard  no  more :  it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Thou  com'st  to  use  thy  tongue ;  thy  story  quickly. 

Mess.    Gracious  my  lord,  m 

I  should  report  that  which  I  say  I  saw, 
But  know  not  how  to  do  it. 

Macb.  Well,  say,  sir. 

Mess.    As  I  did  stand  my  watch  upon  the  hill, 
I  look'd  toward  Birnam,  and  anon,  methought. 
The  wood  began  to  move. 

Macb.  Liar  and  slave ! 

Mess.   Let  me  endure  your  wrath,  if 't  be  not  so : 
Within  this  three  mile  may  you  see  it  coming ; 
I  say,  a  moving  grove. 

Macb.  If  thou  speak' st  false, 

Upon  the  next  tree  shalt  thou  hang  alive. 
Till  famine  cling  thee  :  if  thy  speech  be  sooth,  40 

I  care  not  if  thou  dost  for  me  as  much. 
I  pull  in  resolution,  and  begin 
To  doubt  the  equivocation  of  the  fiend 
That  lies  like  truth  :  "  Fear  not,  till  Birnam  wood 
Do  come  to  Dunsinane  :  "  and  now  a  wood 
Comes  toward  Dunsinane.     Arm,  arm,  and  out  I 
If  this  which  he  avouches  does  appear. 
There  is  nor  flying  hence  nor  tarrying  here. 
I  gin  to  be  aweary  of  the  sun. 

And  wish  the  estate  o'  th'  world  were  now  undone.     5t 
Ring  the  alarum-bell !     Blow,  wind !  come,  wrack ! 
At  least  we  '11  die  with  harness  on  our  back.      [Exeunt 

40.    cling  =  shrivel. 

42.  pull  in  =  check,  as  a  horse  is  checked. 


94  MACBETH,  [ActV. 

Scene  VI.     Duns  inane.     Before  the  castle. 

Drum  and  colours.     Enter  MALCOiiM,  old  Siwabd,  Macduff,  and 
their  Army,  with  boughs. 

Mai.   Now  near  enougli :  your  leafy  screens  throw 
down, 
And  show  like  those  you  are.     You,  worthy  uncle, 
Shall,  with  my  cousin,  your  right-noble  son. 
Lead  our  first  battle :  worthy  Macduff  and  we 
Shall  take  upon  's  what  else  remains  to  do, 
According  to  our  order. 

Siw.  Fare  you  well. 

Do  we  but  find  the  tyrant's  power  to-night, 
Let  us  be  beaten,  if  we  cannot  fight. 

Macd.    Make  aU  our  trumpets  speak  ;  give  them  all 
breath. 
Those  clamorous  harbingers  of  blood  and  death.        lo 

\Exeunt. 

Scene  VII.     Another  part  of  the  field. 
Alarums.    Enter  Macbeth. 

Mach.    They  have  tied  me  to  a  stake ;  I  cannot  fly, 
But,  bear-like,  I  must  fight  the  course.     What  s  he 
That  was  not  born  of  woman  ?     Such  a  one 
Am  I  to  fear,  or  none. 

Enter  young  Siwabd. 

Jo.  Siw.   What  is  thy  name  ? 
Mach.  Thou  'It  be  afraid  to  hear  it. 

Yo.  Siw.   No ;  though  thou  call'st  thyself  a  hotter 
name 
Than  any  is  in  hell. 

Mach.  My  name  's  Macbeth. 

4.  [battle :  here  a  body  of  troops,  a  division  of  an  army.     So 
Holinshed :  "  He  divided  the  same  into  three  battels."] 


Scene  VII.]  MACBETH.  96 

Yo.  Siw.   The  Devil  himself  could  not  pronounce 
a  title 
More  hateful  to  mine  ear. 

Macb,  No,  nor  more  fearful. 

Yo.   Siw.   Thou  liest,  abhorred  tyrant ;    with  my 
sword  w 

I  '11  prove  the  lie  thou  speak'st. 

[They  fight  and  young  Siward  is  slain. 

Mach.  Thou  wast  born  of  woman. 

But  swords  I  smile  at,  weapons  laugh  to  scorn, 
Brandish'd  by  man  that 's  of  a  woman  born.         [Exit. 
Alarums.     Enter  Macduff. 

Macd.   That  way  the  noise  is.     Tyrant,  show  thy 
face ! 
If  thou  be'st  slain  and  with  no  stroke  of  mine, 
My  wife  and  children's  ghosts  will  haunt  me  still. 
I  cannot  strike  at  wretched  kerns,  whose  arms 
Are  hired  to  bear  their  staves  :  either  thou,  Macbeth, 
Of  else  my  sword  with  an  unbatter'd  edge  i» 

I  sheathe  again  undeeded.    There  thou  should'st  be  ; 
By  this  great  clatter,  one  of  greatest  note 
Seems  bruited.     Let  me  find  him,  fortune  ! 
And  more  I  beg  not.  [Exit.    Alarums. 

Enter  Malcolm  and  old  Siward. 

Siw.    This  way,  my  lord ;  the  castle  's  gently  ren« 
der'd: 
The  tyrant's  people  on  both  sides  do  fight  \ 
The  noble  thanes  do  bravely  in  the  war ; 
The  day  almost  itself  professes  yours, 
And  little  is  to  do. 

Mai.  We  have  met  with  foes 

That  strike  beside  us. 

Siw,  Enter,  sir,  the  castle.    [Exeunt.    Alarums 

18.  staves  =  spear-staves. 


d6  MACBETH.  [ActV. 

Scene  VIII.     Another  part  of  the  field. 
Enter  Macbeth. 

Jfach.   Why  should  I  play  the  Roman  fool,  and  die 
On  mine  own  sword  ?  whiles  I  see  lives,  the  gashes 
Do  better  upon  them. 

Enter  Macduff. 

Macd^  Turn,  hell-hound,  turn  I 

Mach,   Of  all  men  else  I  have  avoided  thee : 
But  get  thee  back ;  my  soul  is  too  much  charged 
With  blood  of  thine  already. 

Macd,  I  have  no  words ; 

My  voice  is  in  my  sword :  thou  bloodier  villain 
Than  terms  can  give  thee  out !  [They  fight. 

Mach,  Thou  losest  labour : 

As  easy  mayst  thou  the  intrenchant  air 
With  thy  keen  sword  impress  as  make  me  bleed :      lo 
Let  fall  thy  blade  on  vulnerable  crests ; 
I  bear  a  charmed  life,  which  must  not  yield 
To  one  of  woman  born. 

Macd,  Despair  thy  charm  ; 

And  let  the  angel  whom  thou  still  hast  serv'd 
Tell  thee,  Macduff  was  from  his  mother's  womb 
Untimely  ripp'd. 

Macb,   Accursed  be  that  tongue  that  tells  me  so, 
For  it  hath  cow'd  my  better  part  of  man ! 
And  be  these  juggling  fiends  no  more  believed, 
That  palter  with  us  in  a  double  sense  ;  2€ 

That  keep  the  word  of  promise  to  our  ear, 
And  break  it  to  our  hope.     1  '11  not  fight  with  thee. 

Macd,    Then  yield  thee,  coward. 
And  live  to  be  the  show  and  gaze  o'  th'  time : 
We  '11  have  thee,  as  our  rarer  monsters  are, 

9.  [intrenchant  =  not  to  be  cut,  indivisible.] 


Scene  VIIL]  MACBETH.  97 

Painted  upon  a  pole,  and  underwrit, 
"  Here  may  you  see  the  tyrant." 

Mach.  I  will  not  yield, 

To  kiss  the  ground  before  young  Malcolm's  feet, 
And  to  be  baited  with  the  rabble's  curse. 
Though  Birnam  wood  be  come  to  Dunsinane,  so 

And  thou  opposed,  being  of  no  woman  born. 
Yet  I  will  try  the  last.     Before  my  body 
I  throw  my  warlike  shield..    Lay  on,  Macduff, 
And  damn'd  be  him  that  first  cries  "  Hold,  enough !  " 

[Exeunt^  fighting.     Alarums. 

Betreat.     Flourish.     Enter,  with  drum  and  colours,  MAiiCOLM,  old 
SiwARD,  Ross,  the  other  Thanes  and  Soldiers. 

Mai.   I  would  the  friends  we  miss  were  safe  ar- 
rived. 

Siw.    Some  must  go  off :  and  yet,  by  these  I  see, 
So  great  a  day  as  this  is  cheaply  bought. 

Mai.    Macduff  is  missing,  and  your  noble  son. 

Hoss.   Your  son,  my  lord,  has  paid  a  soldier's  debt : 
He  only  lived  but  till  he  was  a  man ;  40 

The  which  no  sooner  had  his  prowess  confirm'd 
In  the  unshrinking  station  where  he  fought, 
But  like  a  man  he  died. 

jSiw.  Then  he  is  dead  ? 

Hoss.   Ay,  and  brought  off  the  field :  your  cause  of 
sorrow 
Must  not  be  measured  by  his  worth  ;  for  then 
It  hath  no  end. 

jSiw.  Had  he  his  hurts  before  ? 

Hoss.   Ay,  on  the  front. 

Siw.  Why  then,  God's  soldier  be  he ! 

Had  I  as  many  sons  as  I  have  hairs, 
I  would  not  wish  them  to  a  fairer  death : 
And  so,  his  knell  is  knoll'd. 


98  MACBETH.  [ActV.Sc.VIIL 

Mai.  He 's  worth  more  sorrow,  «§ 

And  that  I  '11  spend  for  him. 

Siw.  He 's  worth  no  more : 

They  say  he  parted  well,  and  paid  his  score : 
And  so,  God  be  with  him !     Here  comes  newer  com- 
fort. 

Re-enter  Macduff,  and  Soldiers  hearing  Macbeth's  head  on  a  spear. 

Macd.   Hail,  king !  for  so  thou  art :  behold,  where 
stands 
The  usurper's  cursed  head :  the  time  is  free : 
I  see  thee  compass'd  with  thy  kingdom's  pearl, 
That  speak  my  salutation  in  their  minds ; 
Whose  voices  I  desire  aloud  with  mine : 
Hail,  King  of  Scotland  ! 

All.  Hail,  King  of  Scotland.     [Flourish. 

Mai.    We  shall  not  spend  a  large  expense  of  time 
Before  we  reckon  with  your  several  loves,  ei 

And  make  us  even  with  you.     My  thanes  and  kinsmen, 
Henceforth  be  earls,  the  first  that  ever  Scotland 
In  such  an  honour  named.     What 's  more  to  do, 
Which  would  be  planted  newly  with  the  time. 
As  calling  home  our  exiled  friends  abroad 
That  fled  the  snares  of  watchful  tyranny ; 
Producing  forth  the  cruel  ministers 
Of  this  dead  butcher  and  his  fiend-like  queen. 
Who,  as  't  is  thought,  by  self  and  violent  hands         70 
Took  off  her  life ;  this,  and  what  needful  else 
That  calls  upon  us,  by  the  grace  of  Grace, 
We  will  perform  in  measure,  time  and  place : 
So,  thanks  to  all  at  once  and  to  each  one. 
Whom  we  invite  to  see  us  crown'd  at  Scone. 

[Flourish.    Exeunt, 

63.  be  earls,  the  first,  etc.    Thus  Holinshed  makes  him  say 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  SPECIAL  STUDY. 

Relation  of  the  Play  to  History.  The  real  history  of  the 
life  of  Macbeth  will  prove  only  a  source  of  confusion  to  the 
student.  Shakespeare  did  not  know  it.  Basing  his  work 
on  Holinshed's  Chronicle,  he  did  not  even  care  to  follow 
that  consistently.  "  Shakespeare,"  says  Professor  Corson, 
*^  always  brought  an  independent  dramatic  purpose  to  the 
adopted  story  or  history,  by  which  dramatic  purpose  the 
movement  of  the  play  is  determined."  Not  even  from  Hol- 
inshed,  then,  can  we  obtain  new  light  upon  action  or  char- 
acter ;  the  thing  to  be  gained  by  examining  the  Chronicle  is 
a  notion  of  Shakespeare's  method  of  work,  —  his  principle 
of  selection,  his  ethical  and  artistic  aim.  When  he  devi- 
ates from  his  original,  we  should  seek  his  reason,  moral 
or  aesthetic. 

Duration  of  the  Action.  In  regard  to  the  time  covered 
by  the  action,  the  usual  puzzle  presents  itself,  —  the  incon- 
sistency of  "  Shakespeare's  two  clocks."  (For  a  full  expla- 
nation see  the  Fur n  ess  Variorum  Othello^  or,  for  a  briefer 
one,  the  Introduction  to  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  in  this 
series.)  Note  the  many  touches  that  seem  to  spur  on,  with 
fierce  rapidity,  an  action  that  really  demands  years. 

Genuineness  of  the  Text.  The  portions  rejected  by  Mr. 
White  are  Act  III.  sc.  v. ;  Act  IV.  sc.  i.  lines  1-48,  also 
from  "  Sweet  bodements,"  line  96,  to  "  mortal  custom,'* 
and  lines  125-132  ;  Act  IV.  sc.  iii.  lines  140-159  ;  and  Act 
V.  sc.  viii.  lines  35-75.  The  Clarendon  Press  editors  are 
even  more  radical ;  but  it  is  noticeable  that  they  retain  Act 
IV.  sc.  i.  lines  1-48,  and  suspect  Act  I.  sc.  ii. 

Dramatic  Structure.  Notwithstanding  differences  of 
opinion  among  scholars,  the  student  is  advised  to  consider  the 


too  MACBETH. 

play  as  an  organic  whole.  It  will  be  found,  when  carefully 
studied,  to  have  a  wonderful  aesthetic  and  moral  unity.  The 
only  passages  which  seriously  mar  this  unity  occur  in  Act  I. 
sc.  ii.,  Act  III.  sc.  v.,  and  the  brief  part  of  Hecate  in  Act 
IV.  sc.  i.  lines  39-43.    These  will  be  examined  in  their  order. 

Act  I.  sc.  i.  "  The  true  reason  for  the  first  appearance 
of  the  Witches,"  says  Coleridge,  "  is  to  strike  the  keynote 
of  the  character  of  the  whole  drama."  The  scene,  there- 
fore, briefly  and  boldly  presents  two  essential  ideas,  as 
a  preparation  for  all  that  is  to  follow.  We  are  immedb 
ately  confronted  by  something  out  of  nature  ;  for  the  deeds 
represented  in  this  play  are  to  be  "  'gainst  nature  still." 
Compare  Act  II.  sc.  ii.  (iv.  according  to  the  folio).  At  the 
same  time  we  are  made  aware  that  this  unnatural  element 
is  wholly  evil.  It  is  not  above  nature,  in  the  literal  sense 
of  supernatural ;  it  is  a  contradiction,  a  reversal  of  nature. 
In  greater  measure  than  any  other  work  of  Shakespeare, 
Macbeth  is  the  tragedy  of  a  false,  a  reversed  standard. 
Hence  we  have  as  prelude  the  Witches'  muttered  creed,  — 
not  lightly  introduced  as  a  jingling  charm,  but  full  of  deep 
and  dreadful  significance :  "  Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair." 
Compare  the  austere  denunciation  in  Isaiah,  chapter  v.  20 ; 
"  Woe  unto  them  that  call  evil  good,  and  good  evil ;  that 
put  darkness  for  light,  and  light  for  darkness  ;  that  put 
bitter  for  sweet,  and  sweet  for  bitter !  " 

It  is  interesting  to  trace  these  two  associated  ideas  —  the 
"  breach  in  nature  "  and  the  reversal  of  the  moral  standard 
—  through  the  rhetoric  of  the  play ;  for  in  Shakespeare  the 
great  root-ideas  are  always  budding  out  into  the  rhetoric. 
It  seems,  to  change  the  figure,  as  if  a  central  light  were 
reflected  in  a  series  of  word-mirrors.  It  would  be  well  to 
make  a  list  of  the  instances  in  which  these  two  notes  are 
again  struck. 

Sc.  ii.  The  speech  of  Ross,  lines  50-53,  seems  to  imply 
that  Cawdor  was  present  on  the  field.     If  so,  he  was  taken 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  SPECIAL  STUDY.      101 

prisoner  by  Macbeth ;  and  as  he  is  executed  by  Duncan's 
order  before  Macbeth's  arrival  at  Forres  (see  sc.  iv.),  the 
situation  becomes  hard  to  explain.  The  utterances  of  Mac- 
beth in  sc.  iii.  (lines  72-73, 107-108)  also  become  unintelli- 
gible ;  and  it  is  certainly  absurd  for  the  vaguely  informed 
Angus  to  assure  Macbeth  that  his  prisoner  is  a  traitor.  We 
are  thus  driven  to  conclude  (1)  that  the  passage  in  the 
present  scene  does  not  mean  that  Cawdor  was  in  the  battle, 
but  that  he  is  known  by  Ross  to  have  given  Norway  secret 
assistance  (see  the  ambiguous  statements  of  Angus,  sc.  iii. 
lines  111-114)  ;  or  (2)  that  the  scene,  which  is  compara- 
tively poor,  was  written  by  some  one  who  had  not  mastered 
Shakespeare's  design  ;  or  (3)  that  Shakespeare  himself  has 
fallen  into  inconsistency  through  haste.  In  any  case,  we 
must  not  use  a  strained  interpretation  in  an  undoubted  and 
masterly  scene,  such  as  sc.  iii.,  to  make  it  conform  to  one 
which  is  certainly  inferior  and  possibly  ungenuine. 

So.  iii.  Here  we  see  the  comprehensiveness  of  the  Witches' 
love  of  evil ;  to  them  the  pettiest  act  of  malignity  seems  as 
dear  as  an  "  imperial  theme."  —  What  are  these  foul,  un- 
natural creatures,  who  know  the  future  ?  In  Holinshed 
Macbeth  is  greeted  by  *'  three  women  in  strange  and  wild 
apparel,  resembling  creatures  of  elder  world  ;  "  afterwards, 
"the  common  opinion  was,  that  these  women  were  either 
the  weird  sisters,  that  is  .  .  .  the  goddesses  of  destinie,  or 
else  some  nymphs  or  fairies."  They  are  quite  distinct  from 
the  "  wizards,  in  whose  words  he  put  great  confidence,"  of 
the  latter  part  of  the  story.  Shakespeare  has  chosen  to 
blend  these  two  elements ;  the  same  strange  beings  who 
meet  Macbeth  upon  the  heath  are  sought  by  him  in  Act  IV. 
Notice  the  gain  in  compactness  and  concreteness.  But  the 
fusion  creates  a  puzzle.  By  their  speeches  these  are  clearly 
witches,  of  the  type  believed  in  by  Shakespeare's  country- 
men in  his  day  ;  yet  they  are  called  "  the  weird  sisters  "  — 
the  Fate  Sisters.  The  question  arises,  to  what  extent  did 
Shakespeare  intend  these  mysterious  women  to  represent 
Destiny  "i 


102  MACBETH. 

We  may  safely  answer,  not  to  such  an  extent  that  Mao 
heth's  free-will  is  fettered.  "  Only  free  agency  is  dra- 
matic." (Corson.)  (Note  that  the  strange  power  of  the 
Witches  is  strangely  limited ;  the  first  Witch  is  powerless 
to  wreck  the  ship ;  she  can  only  toss  it  with  tempest,  and 
drain  the  sleepless  shipman  "  dry  as  hay.")  But  when  once 
the  will,  originally  free,  has  turned  toward  evil,  it  finds 
in  the  external  world  a  startling  assistance  and  accelera> 
tion.  (See  Lady  Macheth's  exclamation,  sc.  v.  lines  45—76.) 
These  Witches  embody,  suggests  Professor  Dowden,  "  the 
powers  auxiliary  to  vice  existing  outside  ourselves."  They 
help  at  the  birth  of  evil  deeds ;  and  then,  in  truth,  those 
deeds  become  Destiny. 

*'  Our  acts  our  angels  are,  or  good  or  ill, 
Our  fatal  shadows  that  walk  by  us  still." 

When  Macbeth  enters,  he  is  speaking  to  Banquo  of  the 
day  just  ending.  The  words  of  both  are  careless;  Mac- 
beth's  may  refer  to  the  foul  weather  and  the  fair  event  of 
the  fight,  or  perhaps  altogether  to  the  battle,  —  "a  day  so 
foul  with  slaughter,  so  fair  in  glory,  I  have  never  yet  seen." 
The  important  point  is,  that  the  words  recall  to  us,  like  a 
strain  of  music,  the  creed  of  the  Witches ;  and  that  we  are 
also  made  to  feel  that  the  day  is  a  supreme  one  for  Macbeth. 
He  has  done  his  noblest  deeds  ;  his  sword  has  twice  saved 
his  country.  But  before  the  sun  sets,  the  lust  of  power 
which  he  has  secretly  indulged  is  to  be  strangely  stimulated ; 
it  is  not  only  the  fairest  day,  but  the  foulest,  the  closest  to 
the  forces  of  evil,  his  life  has  yet  known. 

Why  does  Macbeth  start  (line  51)  ?  Not  because  the 
thought  of  the  throne  is  new  to  him ;  rather  because  it 
is  not  new.  (For  absolute  proof  of  this,  see  sc.  vii.  lines 
47-52.  Yet  a  man's  hidden  communings  with  his  own 
heart  do  not  wholly  commit  him  to  an  action,  either  good  or 
evil ;  and  a  confidence  made  to  his  wife  was  little  more  than 
self-communing.  Whatever  he  may  have  breathed  of  reso- 
lution, —  may  even  impulsively  have  sworn,  —  Macbeth  if 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  SPECIAL  STUDY,      103 

not  resolved.)  Plainly,  the  cause  of  his  present  agitation  is 
the  sudden  discovery  that  he  has  not  dreamed  and  plotted 
to  himself  alone  ;  that  some  strange  external  agency  has 
entered  into  league  with  him,  without  his  knowledge.  A 
sense  that  the  occasion  which  seemed  remote  is  imminent, 
that  a  shadowy  Accomplice  (now  spoken  of  as  "  chance," 
but  later  as  "  the  common  enemy  of  man  ")  is  somehow 
thrusting  it  upon  him,  —  this  it  is  which  fills  him  with  per^ 
turbation  and  horror. 

Read  this  scene  intently,  as  if  you  were  to  play  Macbeth's 
part,  and  must  understand  the  source  of  each  utterance. 
In  the  soliloquy,  lines  127-142,  first  appears  that  overmas- 
tering power  of  the  imagination  which  is  Macbeth's  chief 
characteristic,  and  the  main  cause,  first  of  his  hesitation, 
and  afterward  of  his  precipitancy  in  action.  In  this,  as 
in  his  emotional  tendency,  Macbeth  is  distinctly  a,  Celt.  — • 
Notice  his  bewilderment,  his  confusion  as  to  what  is  foul 
and  what  is  fair.  Finally  he  hurls  the  whole  entangle- 
ment from  him,  with  a  touch  of  fatalism,  casting  all  upon 
"  chance  "  and  future  time.  —  Follow  Banquo  through  the 
scene,  and  observe  his  natural,  manly  demeanor. 

Sc,  iv.  Dramatic  irony  occurs  when  the  persons  of  the 
play  are  ignorant  of  facts  known  to  the  reader  or  the  audi- 
ence, and  therefore  speak  or  act  in  a  strikingly  inappropri- 
ate way.  Note  here  Duncan's  words  to  Macbeth,  immedi- 
ately following  his  speech  about  Cawdor.  What  feeling 
rises  in  the  reader  ?  This  expedient  is  presently  repeated  ; 
notice  where.  Find  examples  of  it  in  sc.  vi.,  and  a  very 
impressive  one  in  Act  II.  sc.  i.  (iii.  in  the  folio). — See 
note  on  line  39.     This  point,  often  slighted,  is  important. 

Sc,  V,  Observe  Lady  Macbeth's  singleness  of  purpose. 
Her  nature,  as  compared  with  Macbeth's,  is  simple  and 
balanced ;  all  her  powers  work  together.  She  is  rapid, 
clear,  and  direct  of  thought,  and  her  will  is  as  strong  as 
steel.  Her  standard  is  evident ;  she  "  has  chosen  evil  to 
be  her  good ; "  hence  to  her  "  fair  is  foul."  (Lines  13-14. 


104  MACBETH. 

Is  her  judgment  of  Macbeth  correct  ?)  Notice  that  she  is 
confident  that  Macbeth  shares  her  view  of  life,  and  covets 
the  crown ;  (see  also  sc.  vii.  line  42  —  a  very  important 
line).  She  believes  that  he  is  not  really  repelled  by  the 
thought  of  Duncan's  murder,  but  merely  unwilling  to  con- 
nect himself  with  it.  (Lines  21-22.)  Is  there  anything  in 
the  play  to  show  that  her  ambition  is  for  herself  alone  ? 

The  terrible  passage,  lines  37-51,  is  really  an  evil  prayer 
—  a  cry  to  external  powers  of  evil  for  reinforcement  in 
evil.  We  do  not  cry  out  thus  for  that  which  is  not  neededc 
Can  one  imagine  Goneril  or  Regan  putting  up  such  a  prayer  ? 
What  are  we  to  conclude  as  to  this  womran's  original  na- 
ture ? —  was  it  "fiend-like,"  or  had  it  the  possibilities  of 
the  average  womanhood  ?  (Notice,  on  this  point,  Act  II. 
sc.  ii.  in  folio,  lines  13-14,  —  a  revelation  of  character  as 
by  a  flash  of  lightning.)  If  we  regard  such  speeches  as  the 
present,  and  sc.  vii.  lines  54-59,  as  a  wilful  violation  of  na- 
ture, doubly  violent  from  the  effort  involved,  they  become 
highly  suggestive. 

Sc.  vi.  The  exquisite  beauty  of  lines  1-10  needs  no 
comment.  For  a  fine  analysis  of  the  epithet  "temple- 
haunting,"  see  Lowell,  Shakespeare  Once  More^  iii.  45.  — 
Why  does  Macbeth  not  appear  in  this  scene  ?  Does  it  not 
seem,  from  his  non-appearance,  and  from  his  brief  speeches 
in  sc.  v.,  that  though  he  was  apparently  resolved  at  the  end 
of  sc.  iv.,  his  long,  lonely  ride  had  given  him  a  chance  to 
reflect  and  to  waver  ? 

Sc.  vii.  The  student  should  carefully  analyze  this  solilo- 
quy. It  divides  itself  into  five  finished  portions,  and  a 
sixth  which  is  interrupted.  Where  is  there  an  expression 
of  a  lingering  sense  of  moral  responsibility  ?  Is  the  argu- 
ment in  lines  16-25  against  killing  Duncan  because  "  he 
hath  been  clear  in  his  great  office,"  or  because  "  his  virtues 
will  plead  like  angels"  with  the  people  against  his  mur* 
derer  ?  What  consideration  is  really  holding  back  Macbeth, 
and  how  does  Lady  Macbeth  remove  it  ? 


I 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  SPECIAL  STUDY,      105 

In  the  energy  of  the  action  we  hardly  feel  the  immense 
pathos  of  this  scene.  For  whatever  reasons,  Macbeth  had 
concluded  to  "  proceed  no  further."  It  is  his  wife  who 
urges  him  on  to  crime  and  ruin ;  and  we  cannot  doubt  that 
she  does  it  in  love  of  him.  Her  sharp  speech  is  only  a  goad, 
to  drive  him  to  the  deed  which  she  believes  best  for  him,  — • 
terrible  thought !  Her  act  is  like  the  pushing  of  a  boulder, 
which  hangs  balanced,  over  a  precipice ;  after  that  one 
impulse,  nothing  can  stay  it,  and  it  gathers  impetus  as  it 
goes.  —  What  words  of  Macbeth  here  mark  the  climax  ? 

Act  II.  sc.  i.  [In  folio,  i.  and  ii.]  Throughout  this  su- 
perb scene  there  is  a  contrast  between  the  emotional  and 
imaginative  Macbeth,  and  his  wife,  who  is  not  only  far 
less  emotional  and  imaginative,  but  who  has  all  her  powers 
under  the  control  of  an  inflexible  will.  It  must  be  strongly 
emphasized  that  this  is  a  contrast  of  organization,  and  not 
of  moral  condition.  At  the  end  of  the  scene  we  cannot 
justly  pronounce  that  Macbeth  is  remorseful,  his  wife  in- 
capable of  remorse ;  judgment  must  be  reserved  until  the 
end  of  the  play.  —  In  what  succession  of  incidents  is  the 
contrast  developed  ? 

[Sc.  iii.  in  folio.]  See  De  Quincey's  essay  "  On  the 
Knocking  at  the  Gate  in  Macbeth."  His  subtle  explana- 
tion of  tlie  effect  of  the  knocking  applies  equally  to  the 
introduction  of  the  Porter. 

Notice  line  73.  Lady  Macbeth  is  playing  a  part,  yet 
cannot  escape  from  her  own  individuality.  Her  attention 
has  so  long  been  exclusively  fixed  upon  "  our  house,"  that 
if  she  were  not  actively  wicked  she  would  still  be  narrow 
and  unsympathetic.  How  does  her  speech  strike  Baiiquo  ? 
What  act  has  Macbeth  committed  that  formed  no  part  of 
the  original  plan  ?  What  is  the  immediate  effect  of  that 
act  upon  Macduff  ?  It  is  at  this  point  that  Lady  Macbeth 
swoons,  —  "  not  in  feigning,  but  in  fact,"  says  Professor 
Dowden.     Can  you  find  a  probable  cause  for  her  swoon  ? 


106  MACBETH. 

Act  III.  We  are  now  to  mark  widely  different  effects  of 
the  great  crime,  as  sliown  in  Macbeth  and  in  Lady  Macbeth. 
Macbeth's  chief  source  of  torment  is  the  reflection  that 
Banquo's  issue  will  rule  in  the  kingdom,  and  the  attendant 
fear  that  the  knowledge  of  this  fact  may  awaken  ambition 
in  Banquo  himself.  Macbeth's  mind  is  "  full  of  scorpions," 
yet  he  does  not  despair.  He  cherishes  the  false  notion 
that  he  may  yet  establish  himself  firmly  and  happily  on 
the  throne.  (See  sc.  iv.  lines  21-23.  Find  other  passages 
that  confirm  the  analysis  just  given.)  Lady  Macbeth  ap- 
parently indulges  no  such  idea ;  she  has  exerted  her  en- 
ergies once  for  all,  and  gained  "the  ornament  of  life," 
only  to  find  it  worthless;  "nought  's  had,  all  's  spent." 
This  is  the  tone  of  despair  —  a  despair  concealed  from  her 
husband.  —  Before  Duncan's  murder  Lady  Macbeth  was 
the  impelling  force.  Now  she  no  longer  urges  or  even  sug- 
gests action  ;  unless  we  accept  as  a  suggestion  the  vague 
reflection,  —  thrown  out  with  an  idea  of  comforting  Macbeth 
for  the  moment,  and  changing  the  current  of  his  thoughts, 
—  that  in  Banquo  and  Fleance  "  nature's  copy  's  not 
eterne."  Macbeth,  on  the  contrary,  in  the  fatuous  pride  of 
his  new  independence,  concealing  his  plans  from  his  wife, 
hurries  on  from  crime  to  crime  with  increasing  impetus. 
(See  sc.  iv.  lines  136-140.)  His  compunction  has  entirely 
disappeared  ;  and  there  is  a  new  development,  —  the  mur- 
derous cunning  which  he  displays  in  his  conversation  with 
the  assassins  of  Banquo.  (Find  touches  of  a  growing 
pleasure  in  evil,  in  his  speeches  in  this  Act ;  to  what  root- 
idea  does  this  carry  us  back?)  The  student  may  trace 
through  the  remainder  of  the  play  evidences  of  the  increas' 
ing  precipitancy  of  Macbeth's  action.  Find  one  line  in  sc. 
ii.  spoken  by  Macbeth  which  would  serve  as  a  summary  of 
the  special  theme  of  this  Act,  and  at  the  same  time  as  an 
explanation  of  his  entire  future  course.  Find  a  speech  of 
his  to  Lady  Macbeth  in  which  he  takes  a  certain  mascu- 
line attitude  of  superiority  in  action,  which  is  precisely  the 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  SPECIAL  STUDY.      107 

reverse  of  his  attitude  in  Acts  I.  and  II.  In  what  speeches 
of  Lady  Macbeth,  Act  I.  sc.  v.,  might  we  have  marked 
this  note  of  conscious  superiority  in  action  ? 

What  glimpses  have  we,  in  Acts  III.  and  IV.,  of  the 
working  out  of  the  sentence  pronounced  by  the  imaginary 
voice,  "  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more  "  ? 

In  sc.  iv.  Lady  Macbeth  displays  all  her  old  presence  of 
mind  and  self-control,  and  uses  her  former  method  with 
Macbeth,  endeavoring,  for  his  own  sake,  to  sting  him  into 
self-command  by  a  show  of  contempt.  This  method  proves 
ineffective  now ;  but  she  retains  her  firm  grasp  of  her  own 
faculties  till  she  has,  as  gracefully  and  plausibly  as  possi- 
ble, dismissed  the  guests.  Then,  indeed,  we  recognize  her 
utter  surrender,  in  the  brief,  exhausted  answers  she  gives 
to  Macbeth's  half -delirious  questions.  From  this  point  she- 
makes  no  attempt  to  prompt,  to  guide,  or  to  check  his 
action  ;  he  is  quite  beyond  her. 

Is  the  ghost  in  the  banquet-scene  the  strongest  of  Mac- 
beth's  hallucinations,  in  the  same  class  as  the  dagger  and 
the  voice  ?  Or  are  we  to  regard  it  as  an  objective  appari- 
tion, to  be  represented  on  the  stage  ?  Try  to  ascertain  the 
usage  of  great  actors.  This  cannot  be  conclusive,  but  may 
be  taken  as  testimony. 

Sc.  V.  This  scene  is  manifestly  inferior.  It  is  needless 
to  the  plot,  and  reduces  the  Witches  to  subordinates,  thus 
destroying  the  impressiveness  of  what  has  gone  before. 
Hecate  is  one  of  Middle  ton's  characters  in  The  Witch :  see 
Introduction. 

Act  IV.  sc.  i.  Whatever  difference  of  opinion  may  exist 
as  to  lines  1-38,  —  which  are  certainly  vigorous  enough,  — 
there  will  probably  be  little  hesitation  in  ascribing  the 
entire  part  of  Hecate  to  Middleton.  If  we  regard  the 
incantation  as  Shakespeare's,  its  accumulated  hideousness 
is  an  insistence  on  the  fairness,  to  the  Witches,  of  all  foul 
things.     Notice  the  power  of  Macbeth's  conjuration,  lines 


108  MACBETH. 

50-60,  and  ite  consistency  with  certain  touches  of  imperious 
and  passionate  selfishness  in  Act  III.  scenes  ii.  and  iv.  ;  find 
these  instances,  and  another  in  Act  V.  sc.  v.  It  is  here  as 
if  Macbeth  felt  himself  at  odds  with  the  laws  of  the  universe, 
and  yet,  in  his  delusion,  dreamed  of  overbearing  them  by 
his  savage  will.  Note  the  growth  of  this  insubordinate  will 
since  Act  I. 

So.  ii.  Hitherto  the  effect  of  Macbeth' s  crimes  on  him- 
self has  been  chiefly  emphasized ;  the  rest  of  this  Act  shows 
the  far-reaching  effect  on  others.  —  How  pathetic  are  Lady 
Macduff's  reproaches,  contrasted  with  her  loyal  anger  in 
line  80  ;  and  the  quips  of  the  over-shrewd  boy,  who  flashes 
out  at  last  his  tiny  spark  of  knightly  rage,  and  dies  with  his 
shrill,  love-prompted  cry  of  "  Mother,  run  away,  I  pray 
you !  "  It  was  necessary  to  prepare  us,  by  this  scene,  for 
the  full  force  of  Macduff's  speeches  in  the  last  part  of  sc.  iii., 
and  by  the  whole  episode  to  bring  home  to  the  imagination 
the  sorrows  of  aU  Scotland.  What  would  the  generaliza- 
tions of  Macduff  and  Ross  effect  without  this  presentation  ? 

Sc.  iii.  The  dialogue  between  Malcolm  and  Macduff  is 
taken  almost  bodily  from  Holinshed.  The  situation  is 
strained,  but  the  dramatic  effect  is  unquestionable.  —  One 
of  the  finest  passages  in  the  play  is  the  exclamation  of 
Macduff,  lines  216-219.  Try  to  explain  its  power.  '^He 
has  no  children  ;  "  of  whom  is  Macduff  speaking  ? 

In  regard  to  lines  140-159,  Mr.  White  says,  "  This  pas- 
sage about  the  king's-evil  has  the 'air  of  an  addition,  for  the 
special  purpose  of  flattering  James  when  the  tragedy  wag 
played  before  him."  Before  finally  adopting,  however,  a 
conclusion  which  cheapens  the  passage,  it  is  well  to  consider 
other  possible  reasons  for  the  introduction  of  such  an  epi- 
sode. Throughout  the  play  one  of  Shakespeare's  favorite 
metaphors  is  significantly  repeated,  —  the  comparison  of 
a  man's  individual  being,  sometimes  spiritual,  sometimes 
physical,  to  the  State,  and  vice  versa.  Find  this,  possibly, 
in  Act  I.  sc.  iii.  line  140  ;  certainly  in  a  corresponding  passage 
in   Julius    Ccesar,  Act  II.  sc.  i.  lines   67-69.     (In   what 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  SPECIAL  STUDY.      109 

lines  in  Macbeth,  Act  V.  scenes  ii.  and  iii.  is  the  same  idea 
suggested  ?)  As  there  is  evidently,  through  Acts  IV.  and 
v.,  a  contrasting  of  the  beneficence  of  true  sovereignty  with 
the  ruin  wrought  by  a  bad  king,  it  does  not  seem  strange 
that,  to  balance  the  presentation  of  a  "  tyrant,  whose  sole 
name  blisters  our  tongues,"  we  should  have  a  royal  healer 
of  evil,  a  holy  king  whose  very  touch  has  power  to  cure  the 
diseases  of  his  subjects. 

Act  V.  sc.  i.  We  recognize  with  a  startled  awe  the  subtle 
poetical  justice  of  this  scene,  remembering  the  suggestion  of 
an  outraged  sanctity  of  nature  in  "  Macbeth  doth  murder 
sleep."  It  was  Lady  Macbeth  who  breathed  the  first  word 
of  this  outrage  :  "  When  Duncan  is  asleep,"  —  and  now 
avenging  Sleep  at  last  betrays  to  others  her  husband's 
secret,  which  it  has  been  the  aim  of  her  later  life  to  guard. 
—  Find  speeches  in  former  Acts  corresponding  to  each  of 
her  utterances  here.  She  is  living  it  all  over  again,  but 
"with  a  difference."  In  Act  II.  she  was  able,  by  a  tre- 
mendous exertion  of  will,  to  suppress  her  natural  horror, 
even  her  disgust  at  the  physical  consequences  of  the  crime. 
But  now  we  see  her  while  the  will  is  off  guard ;  and  we 
know  at  last  that  the  awful  scene  was  burning  itself  into 
her  brain,  even  while  she  was  speaking  the  coldest  words  to 
her  husband.  What  former  speech  contrasts  patheti-cally 
with  lines  50-51,  showing  us  by  a  flash  the  great  gulf  of 
experience  that  lies  between  the  two  moments  ? 

Notice  the  indications,  in  the  latter  part  of  the  play,  that 
Lady  Macbeth  took  her  own  life.  What  is  Macbeth's  view 
of  suicide  ? 

Sc.  iii.  The  almost  insane  confidence  of  Macbeth  has 
grown  from  the  germ  seen  in  Act  III.,  the  delusion  that 
there  is  a  possibility  of  making  his  state  "  whole  as  the 
marble."  This  delusion  has  increased  in  strength,  and  to 
it  has  been  added  the  influence  of  the  Witches'  mislead- 
ing prophecies.  But  we  find,  alternating  with  this  mad 
confidence,  signs  of  a  great  weariness.     There  is  something 


110  MACBETH. 

strangely  piteous  in  Macbeth's  complaints  of  the  bareness  of 
his  autumnal  "  way  of  life  ;  "  he  is  almost  child-like  in  his 
inability  to  connect  effect  with  cause,  and  his  welling  self- 

Sc.  iv.  The  Birnam  wood  episode,  displaying  the  cun- 
ning of  Malcolm,  is  taken  from  Holinshed. 

Sc,  V.  On  hearing  *'  the  cry  of  women,"  Macbeth  himseli 
observes  how  callous  he  has  become  ;  and  on  learning  of  the, 
queen's  death,  he  gives  the  fullest  expression  to  his  world- 
weariness.  This  beautifully  poetic  passage  must  always  be 
understood  as  dramatic  ;  it  is  Macbeth's  verdict  on  life ;  for 
the  traitor  and  murderer  all  is  confusion,  "  a  general  mist 
of  error." 

Scenes  vL,  vii.,  and  viii.  are  practically  one  —  the  battle. 
In  sc.  viii.  Macbeth's  mad  confidence  is  struck  dead  by 
Macduff's  revelation.  (What  warning  utterance  of  Ban- 
quo's,  in  Act  I.,  is  recalled  by  lines  19-22  ?)  The  only  thing 
that  survives  in  the  wreck  of  Macbeth's  manhood  is  his 
physical  bravery,  which  makes  it  possible  for  us  to  bear  the 
horror  of  his  end.  He  dies  like  a  wild  beast  at  bay ;  his 
last  savage  cry,  as  he  hurls  himself  upon  Macduff,  is  less 
insupportable  than  the  whimper  of  cowardice  would  have 
been. 

Shakespeare  found  in  the  English  part  of  Holinshed's 
Chronicle  the  touching  episode  of  the  death  of  young 
Siward,  —  "  right-noble,"  "  with  all  his  hurts  before,"  — 
and  the  reception  of  the  tidings  by  the  grim  father  who 
freely  gives  his  son  to  be  "  God's  soldier."  The  passage 
seems  to  have  been  introduced  at  this  point,  to  give  us  a 
needed  breath  of  the  bracing  air  of  heroism,  after  the 
depressing  spectacle  of  Macbeth's  decay.  The  true  moral 
standard  is  boldly  set  up  again  by  the  rough  hand  of  old 
Siward,  as  he  praises  his  son's  "  fair "  death.  Heaven's 
"  instruments  "  have  re-established  the  sound  order  of  things ; 
"  the  time  is  free ;  "  and  now,  neither  burdened  nor  relaxed, 
but  disciplined  and  awed,  we  emerge  from  the  shadow  of 
the  great  tragedy. 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  SPECIAL  STUDY,      111 

(From  A  Students  History  of  English  Literature^  by  William  Edward 
Simonds,  Professor  of  English  Literature  in  Knox  College.) 
Like  Hamlet^  this  is  a  romantic  tragedy,  in  which  the  drama- 
tist introduces  a  supernatural  element  in  the  part  played  by  the 
Weird  Sisters,  as  well  as  in  the  apparition  of  Banquo's  ghost. 
Notice  the  wonderful  poetry  of  this  play  :  point  out  passages 
which  the  fancy  of  the  poet  has  made  rich  with  imagery.  Note 
the  sweep  and  rush  of  the  movement,  the  inexorable  rapidity  of 
the  action.  How  does  the  opening  sce^e  prepare  for  the  story 
of  evil  that  follows  ?  Study  the  action  of  the  drama  in  this 
diagram :  — 

Murder  of 
Ban  quo. 
\ 


Possession  of  Crown.  Arousing  of  Macduff. 

/  \ 

IL  IV. 

Murder  of  Duncan.  Retreat  to  Dnnsinane. 


The  Weu:d  Sisters.  Death. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  crisis  of  the  play  is  in  the  murder  of 
Banquo  :  why  should  this  incident,  rather  than  the  murder  of 
King  Duncan,  form  the  dramatic  crisis  ?  What  similarity  in 
the  two  murders  first  rouses  general  suspicion  against  Macbeth  ? 
What  is  the  full  significance  of  Fleance's  escape  ?  Now  point 
out  how  Macbeth's  successive  acts  of  tyranny  conduce  to  his  own 
downfall.  Especially  study  the  Macdufif  mptive  :  how  has  Mac- 
beth prepared  an  avenger  of  his  own  wicked  deeds  ?  Make  a  sim- 
ilar examination  of  his  intercourse  with  the  Weird  Sisters.  Show 
how  ironically  their  predictions  serve  to  betray  their  victim. 

In  analyzing  the  character  of  Macbeth,  two  problems  are  to 
be  considered  :  (1)  his  relation  to  the  Weird  Sisters  ;  (2)  his 
relation  to  Lady  Macbeth.  Upon  the  solution  of  these  two 
problems  rests* the  question  of  Macbeth's  moral  responsibility 
for  his  crimes.  First,  is  it  the  salutation  of  these  strange  crea- 
tures on  the  blasted  heath  that  suggests  the  murder  of  King 
Duncan  ?  Study  the  immediate  effect  of  their  prediction  on 
Macbeth.  Why,  do  you  think,  does  he  say,  "  Stay,  you  imper- 
fect speakers,  tell  me  more,"  -«—  and  again,  "  Would  they  had 
staid  "  ?    What  significance  do  you  find  in  the  conversations  with 


112  MACBETH. 

Lady  Macbeth,  scenes  vi.  and  vii.  ?  It  is  well  to  inquire  how 
far  into  the  future  these  mysterious  beings  really  see,  and  to 
what  extent  they  are  actually  able  to  predict.  The  invocation 
of  Lady  Macbeth  to  the  "  niurthering  ministers  "  who  in  their 
"  sightless  substances  "  wait  on  nature's  mischief  is  apparently 
addressed  to  them.  They  are  by  no  means  vntches  in  the  vulgar 
application  of  that  word  ;  rather  does  the  number  and  the  char- 
acter of  these  apparitions  connect  them  in  some  sort  with  the 
Fates.  The  older  meaning  of  the  word  wyrd  was  fate.  They 
may  indicate  the  subtle  intent  of  Macbeth's  half-conscious  pur- 
pose ;  their  power  seems  to  be  only  over  those  who  are  evilly 
inclined  ;  they  seem  to  understand  the  thought  of  their  victim, 
to  harp  his  own  imaginings,  and  to  lure  him  on  in  the  direction 
of  his  desires,  encouraging  him  to  attempt  the  course  he  is  in- 
clined to  follow.  Compare  Genesis  iv.  7  :  "If  thou  doest  not 
well,  sin  lieth  at  the  door." 

Secondly,  as  to  the  other  problem  ;  it  should  be  noted  that 
Lady  Macbeth  is  not  so  much  a  foil  to  her  husband  as  a  com- 
plement ;  she  is  not  used  for  the  purpose  of  contrast  so  much  as 
to  supply  his  defect.  It  is  possible  to  interpret  her  character  as 
that  of  a  woman  selfishly  ambitious  to  be  queen,  inciting  her 
husband  to  a  crime,  and  goading  him  on  to  the  murder  ;  in 
which  case  we  must  consider  her  the  incarnation  of  all  cruelty 
and  wickedness,  a  fiend  in  woman's  form.  We  may,  on  the 
other  hand,  interpret  her  action  as  based  on  her  love  for  Mac- 
beth, and  find  a  motive  for  her  obvious  wickedness  in  the  desire 
that  he  may  possess  the  utmost  fruit  of  his  ambition.  Which 
interpretation  seems  more  just  ?  The  former  was  long  held  to 
be  correct  ;  the  latter  has  more  advocates  now.  In  studying 
her  character,  note  the  signs  of  weakness  which  develop  imme- 
diately after  the  murder  of  the  king.  Why  does  not  Macbeth 
disclose  to  his  wife  his  plans  for  the  murder  of  Banquo  ?  What 
indications  of  tender  feeling  do  you  find  shown  by  Lady  Mac- 
beth in  her  effort  to  protect  her  husband  on  the  appearance  of 
Banquo's  ghost  ? 

Study  both  these  characters  with  reference  to  their  expression 
before  the  murder  of  Duncan  and  afterward.  What  remarka- 
ble exchange  of  character  do  you  discover  in  this  double  devel- 
opment ?  Particularly  note  the  desperate  force  displayed  by 
Macbeth  as  his  doom  approaches. 

The  character  of  Banquo  is  in  admirable  contrast  to  that  of 
the  Thane.  Point  out  some  of  the  differences  between  these 
two  men.  Do  not  fail  to  note  the  intense  pathos  of  the  passage 
wherein  Macduff  learns  of  his  bereavement  (IV.  iii.  200-240). 

Read  the  account  of  the  real  Macbeth  as  given  by  Holinshed, 
and  included  in  many  of  the  introductions  to  the  play.  In  what 
way  has  Shakespeare  enlarged  his  theme  to  the  point  of  univer- 
sality in  its  application  ?  What,  to  your  mind,  is  the  moral 
purpose  of  this  play  ? 


^\)t  Miittgitst  ilitrrature  ^nits 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE 

LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE 

THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR 

BY 

ALFEED,  LOKD  TENNYSON 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTOBY  SKETCH  AND 
EXPLANATORY  NOTES 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

Boston :  4  Park  Street ;  New  York :  85  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago :  378-388  Wabash  Avenue 


CONTENTS. 


Introductory  Sketch     ..••......      3 

Gareth  and  Ltnette 13 

Lancelot  and  Elaine 64 

The  Passing  of  Arthur  ...    * 112 


Copyright,  1903, 

By  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 
All  rights  reserved. 


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on^  fo  ^^«  ^^w  fbunO?  manp  Cbic^e  fonecf  and?  affi  Ibca  fcnOt 
13nfe  t^  fiptig?  /  anO  (bo  iba©  WotOtc^  fcnO:  6p  6prig  J^otto 
Ibpf /ano?  aft  Ibcw  put  w)  a  f5»P  to  %  fee/  atiD  fome  Ibctc  iiii 
lbc^c6  oC^  and?  fbmc  Caffc/Tttid?  fb  6j)  fortune  t6c  f5pp  OTOffe 
Sn6)  a  oafJcC  and  Ibae  a£  6?  rpwej)  and  oefh-opcd  t^  moft  |xit( 
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and?  noMtpffijpd?  ^»j  (gC  Cb  \toae  ^iij  pcis  oCde  /  (t  t^cnng  Qs 
fiioMg^t  ^p^  ^  tQe  Court  /  a^  it  tcQstcctQ  af 6?tlbatt>  ^Sard^ 
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tgie  wame  lbcwdif|3feafpd?/fb«  Oct  cQiCdtsn  Ibcw  (b  ^fii/  and? 
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•ncffogwoimc  eb  ftpnge  (Kpone/  t5cnne  tbao  ^  IbooOc  ou&  of  ^ 
mefuvcand  ptiiuepcd^l^  for  a  gcc6?  Qooft  aoit  tcQ^ccpt^af  ( 
6t  it)  (^  foo6  of  c^oTpi)  Cb  laucage  ffyU  fo&libct^  negt  aftcT/ 
§olb  i^  oduentuc?  ^afpst  ^t  i§c  ftbct^ 
C^^pftcit  ft6n:  ptimu* 
C;S*«'1>*^  ^^  fccunduo 
'5fie«  t§c  det^c  of  OOtSctpendwgoi)  te^cd?  3(r^ 
tgut  ^iGfbn«Jt^c  Ib^icOs  ftid  gttfc  Ibertr  ^  ^i« 
dagw  for  ^  gctc  aCCngfcnd?  iij  fe  ^io  gctnJ^z/ 
:ffot  t^cw  IbCK  mans  ftpngce  lbje?tt)  t??  tcaC^ 
me  of  €ng8bno?  and?  nj  ibaCpe/iScbtCanD?  anC> 
Coincftai«c/Soo  if  &f«K«  on  a  tgmc/  n)i5;innc  ^gng  3ttt§uj 

Reduced  facsimile  of  a  page  of  the  first  edition  of  Sir  Thomas  Malory's 
Morte  Darthur,  printed  by  Caxton  in  1485. 


INTKODUCTORY  SKETCH. 

We  are  told  that  Tennyson  made  his  first  acquaint- 
ance with  the  stories  of  King  Arthur  in  Sir  Thomas 
Malory's  "  Morte  Darthur,"  when  "  little  more  than 
boy."  It  is  certain  that  his  interest  in  the  tales  was 
shown  forth  early  in  his  poetical  work,  for  in  the  vol- 
ume which  he  published  in  1832,  when  only  twenty- 
three  years  old,  "  The  Lady  of  Shalott "  had  an  im- 
portant place,  and  it  is  easy  to  read  not  between  but 
in  its  lines  a  prophecy  of  "  Lancelot  and  Elaine." 
Ten  years  later,  in  1842,  appeared  Tennyson's  next 
important  work,  the  "  Poems,"  in  two  volumes  ;  and 
these  contained,  beside  the  short  pieces,  "  Sir  Gala- 
had "  and  "  Sir  Lancelot  and  Queen  Guinevere," 
the  "  Morte  d' Arthur,"  which,  changed  in  its  original 
introduction  and  conclusion,  eventually  became  "  The 
Passing  of  Arthur,"  the  last  of  the  "  Idylls  of  the 
King."  Any  one  can  read  for  himself  the  setting 
which  inclosed  the  poem  on  its  first  appearance.  To 
the  reader,  remembering  that  the  Idylls  grew  in  the 
end  to  contain  twelve  books,  there  is  a  special  inter- 
est in  a  few  of  the  lines  about  the  imaginary  epic 
of  which  the  "  Morte  d' Arthur  "  professed  to  be  but 
a  part.  They  show  clearly  that  the  possibility  of 
an  epic  of  King  Arthur,  "some  twelve  books,"  wa^ 
already  in  the  poet's  mind.  "  Faint  Homeric  echoes, 
nothing  worth,"  he  calls  the  books  he  professes  to 
have  burned ; 

"  but  pick'd  the  eleventh  from  this  hearth 
And  have  it  :  keep  a  thing,  its  use  will  come." 


4  INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH. 

As  a  mere  foresliadowing,  it  had  its  use ;  more  defi- 
nitely it  must  have  helped  to  prepare  the  way  for  the 
first  instalment  of  the  "  Idylls  of  the  King,"  pub- 
lished in  1869,  and  containing  "Enid,"  "Vivien," 
"  Elaine,"  and  "  Guinevere."  Ten  thousand  copies 
of  this  volume  sold  within  six  weeks.  In  1869,  four 
more  Idylls  were  brought  to  light  in  a  volume  called 
"  The  Holy  Grail  and  Other  Poems."  These  four 
were  "The  Coming  of  Arthur,"  "The  Holy  Grail," 
"  Pelleas  and  Ettarre,"  and  "  The  Passing  of  Ar- 
thur," which,  as  we  have  seen,  was  none  other  than 
the  "  Morte  d' Arthur  "  of  nearly  thirty  years  before. 
In  1872  came  "  The  Last  Tournament "  and  "  Gareth 
and  Lynette."  "  Balin  and  Balan  "  was  the  last  to 
appear,  in  "  Tiresias  and  Other  Poems,"  published  in 
1885.  Thus,  from  the  writing  of  the  first  of  the 
Arthurian  poems,  "  The  Lady  of  Shalott,"  to  the  last, 
a  period  of  more  than  fifty  years,  Tennyson's  mind 
could  never  have  been  long  without  thought  of  the 
general  theme  which  runs  through  the  Idylls.  In 
1888  he  gave  them  the  titles  and  the  order  of  arrange- 
ment under  which  they  now  are  grouped.  Dr.  Henry 
van  Dyke  has  well  written :  "  That  a  great  poet  should 
be  engaged  with  his  largest  theme  for  more  than  half 
a  century  ;  that  he  should  touch  it  first  with  a  lyric ; 
then  with  an  epical  fragment  and  three  more  lyrics ; 
then  with  a  poem  which  is  suppressed  as  soon  as  it 
is  written  ;  ^  then  with  four  romantic  idylls,  followed, 
ten  years  later,  by  four  others,  and  two  years  later  by 
two  others,  and  thirteen  years  later  by  yet  another 
idyll,  which  is  to  be  placed  not  before  or  after  the 
rest,  but  in  the  very  centre  of   the  cycle ;  that  he 

^  Enid  and  Nimue,  which  has  not  been  mentioned  in  our  brief 
survey  of  the  Idylls  as  they  now  stand. 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH.  5 

should  begin  with  the  end,  and  continue  with  the 
beginning,  and  end  with  the  middle  of  the  story,  and 
produce  at  last  a  poem  which  certainly  has  more  epi- 
cal grandeur  and  completeness  than  anything  that  has 
been  made  in  English  since  Milton  died,  is  a  thing 
so  marvellous  that  no  man  would  credit  it  save  at  the 
sword's  point  of  fact.  And  yet  this  is  the  exact  rec- 
ord of  Tennyson's  dealing  with  the  Arthurian  legend." 
It  were  aside  from  our  present  purpose,  having 
shown  how  the  Idylls  came  into  existence,  to  enlarge 
upon  their  significance  and  their  beauties.  Each 
one  of  those  contained  in  this  little  book  speaks  for 
itself,  and  when  the  reader  comes  to  enjoy  the  entire 
series  in  its  order,  he  will  feel  the  unity  and  power  of 
the  whole,  perhaps  all  the  more  strongly  for  having 
tasted  here  of  beginning,  middle,  and  end.  It  will 
be  no  far  search  for  him  to  find  critics  full  of  explar 
nations,  many  of  them  excellent,  of  the  spiritual  and 
poetic  value  of  the  work,  not  only  in  detail  but  in 
its  large  plan.  No  interpretation  should  proceed  far 
without  sending  one  back  to  Tennyson's  own  descrip- 
tion of  the  Idylls,  in  the  Epilogue  "  To  the  Queen,"  as 

"  this  old  imperfect  tale, 
New-old,  and  shadowing  Sense  at  war  with  Soul." 

The  remark  which  he  is  said  to  have  made  to  a  friend 
should  also  be  recalled  :  "  By  King  Arthur  I  always 
meant  the  soul,  and  by  the  Round  Table  the  passions 
and  capacities  of  a  man."  Instead  of  looking  closely 
into  these  matters,  however,  let  us  concern  ourselves 
with  the  source  from  which  Tennyson,  directly  or  by 
suggestion,  drew  nearly  all  the  themes  with  which  the 
Idylls  deal.  To  turn  from  the  pages  of  a  familiar 
book  to  others  closely  related  to  it  has  in  it  something 


6  INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH, 

of  the  charm  of  meeting  a  stranger  and  finding  that 
you  and  he  have  dear  friends  in  common.  The  anal- 
ogy must  not  be  pressed  too  closely ;  yet  as  the  new 
friend  and  the  old  both  seem  nearer  for  the  unex- 
pected bond,  so,  we  believe,  both  Tennyson  and  Sir 
Thomas  Malory  will  be  worth  the  more  to  us,  each 
because  of  the  other. 

Who,  then,  was  this  Sir  Thomas  Malory,  and  what 
is  his  book,  the  "Morte  Darthur,"  which  meant  so 
much  to  Tennyson  ?  Almost  nothing  is  known  of 
Malory  himself.  At  the  end  of  his  work  he  wrote : 
"  This  book  was  ended  the  ninth  year  of  the  reign  of 
king  Edward  the  Fourth  by  Sir  Thomas  Maleore, 
Knight,  as  Jesu  help  him  for  his  great  might,  as  he 
is  the  servant  of  Jesu  both  day  and  night."  From 
these  words  the  inference  has  been  drawn  that,  besides 
being  a  knight,  he  was  also  a  priest ;  but  this,  like 
any  other  surmise,  may  or  may  not  be  true.  That 
William  Caxton,  the  first  English  printer,  finished 
printing  the  book  in  the  abbey  of  Westminster  in 
1485,  about  fifteen  years  after  Malory  finished  writ- 
ing it,  appears  to  be  a  certainty.  Caxton  in  his  Pre- 
face to  the  book  declares  that,  after  he  had  printed  the 
life  of  Godfrey  of  Boulogne,  "  many  divers  and  noble 
gentlemen  of  this  realm  of  England  came  and  de- 
manded me  many  and  ofttimes  wherefore  that  I  have 
not  do  made  and  imprint  the  noble  history  of  the 
Saint  Greal,  and  of  the  most  renowned  Christian 
king,  first  and  chief  of  the  three  best  Christian,  and 
worthy,  king  Arthur,  which  ought  most  to  be  remem- 
bered amongst  us  Englishmen  tofore  all  other  Chris- 
tian kings."  Many  such  histories,  he  says,  existed  in 
foreign  tongues,  notably  Welsh  and  French,  and  when 
the  version  which  "  Sir  Thomas  Malorye  did  take  out 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH.  7 

of  certain  books  of  French  and  reduced  it  into  Eng- 
lish," came  to  Caxton's  hands,  it  was  most  gladly 
"  set  down  in  print."  Between  1485  and  1634,  five  or 
six  more  editions  of  the  book  were  printed,  and  from 
1634  to  1816  none.  A  few  others  have  appeared  from 
time  to  time  in  our  century,  the  most  serviceable  for 
general  use  being  the  Globe  Edition  volume  (Macmil- 
lan)  prepared  by  Sir  Edward  Strachey. 

Of  the  King  Arthur  and  his  Knights  of  the  Round 
Table  whose  history  the  book  tells,  practically  nothing 
of  historic  certainty  can  be  said.  Scholars  are  di- 
vided in  their  opinions  concerning  the  very  existence 
of  the  monarch  and  his  court.  There  are  those,  how- 
ever, who  maintain  firmly  that  in  the  days  when  his- 
tory was  left  to  shift  for  itself,  without  the  aid  of 
writers,  such  a  king  did  flourish.  But  whether  he 
lived  in  the  sixth  century,  or  some  other,  or  not  at  all, 
whether  his  Camelot  was  Winchester,  as  Malory  tells, 
or  Cadbury  in  Somersetshire,  or  a  place  as  difficult  to 
point  out  on  a  map  as  Shakespeare's  Bohemian  sea- 
coast,  it  is  certain  that  King  Arthur  and  his  Knights 
did  live  in  the  popular  imagination  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  History  and  tradition  were  kept  alive  much  as 
the  stories  which  Homer  told  are  supposed  to  have 
been  perpetuated.  Bards  and  minstrels,  in  France 
trouveres,  went  from  court  to  court,  from  castle  to  cas- 
tle, singing  their  songs  of  gallantry  and  valor.  No 
stories  had  more  of  the  elements  of  appeal  to  an  audi- 
ence of  feudal  times,  or  gave  the  teller  a  better  oppor- 
tunity to  let  his  imagination  play  about  his  themes 
than  those  of  King  Arthur.  Of  mysterious  birth 
and  death,  the  founder  of  a  noble  order  in  which  the 
sword  and  the  cross  held  almost  equal  value,  the  victim 
of  a  false  wife  and  friend,  withal  the  pattern  in  him- 


8  INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH. 

self  of  every  knightly  virtue,  this  was  a  hero,  as  his 
followers  were  a  fellowship,  to  stir  every  fibre  of 
response  in  the  hearts  of  the  men  and  women  who 
listened  to  their  history.  The  listeners  were  not  con- 
fined to  England.  Indeed,  Brittany  seems  to  have 
been  the  country  in  which  the  Arthurian  stories  first 
throve.  Throughout  France  they  became  perhaps 
even  more  popular  than  in  England.  In  Italy  and 
Sicily,  even,  the  tales  were  well  known.  Each  country, 
taught  by  the  troubadours,  never  loath  to  use  the 
touchstone  of  flattery,  had  a  King  Arthur  of  its  own. 
That  he  is  not  even  yet  forgotten  as  a  dead  man  out 
of  mind,  an  anecdote  which  Renan  told  of  Tennyson 
may  show.  The  poet  had  spent  a  night  at  an  inn  in 
a  village  of  Brittany,  and  in  the  morning  asked  his 
landlady  for  her  bill.  "  You  are  the  man,"  she  said, 
"  who  has  sung  our  King  Arthur,  and  I  cannot  charge 
you  anything."  Such  a  survival  of  reverence  for  a 
popular  hero  speaks  more  than  many  pages  for  the 
power  his  story  has  exerted.  It  is  not  too  much  to 
say  that  the  many  mediaeval  romances  dealing  with 
Arthur  and  his  knights,  and  known  to  scholars  to-day 
through  ancient  manuscripts,  were  so  popular  as  prac- 
tically to  have  provided  the  world  for  several  centuries 
with  its  code  of  chivalry. 

In  Malory's  day  the  Middle  Ages  were  drawing 
near  their  end.  But  it  is  no  strange  thing  that  he 
should  have  known  the  romances  of  which  it  was  writ- 
ten "  in  Welsh  be  many,  and  also  in  French,  and 
Bome  in  English."  His  book  shows  that  his  material 
was  drawn  most  largely  from  the  great  French  ro- 
mances of  Merlin,  Lancelot,  Tristram,  the  Quest  du 
St.  Graal,  and  the  Mort  Artus.  There  was  in  truth 
every  element  of  fitness  in  the  circumstance  that  an 


INTtiODUCTORY  SKETCH.  9 

English  knight,  before  the  days  of  chivalry  had  quite 
passed  away,  should  sum  up  for  the  English  people  in 
their  own  tongue  the  stories  of  the  English  hero  em- 
bodying the  truest  ideals  of  knighthood. 

If  the  good  knight,  however,  had  been  a  mere  trans- 
lator and  copyist,  his  book  could  never  have  lived  in 
itself  and  in  its  influence  as  it  has  done.  It  was  his 
work  to  bring  unity  and  order  out  of  what  was  the 
chaos  of  his  predecessors ;  to  give  life  to  the  char- 
acters ;  to  create  real  men  and  women,  of  traits,  pas- 
sions, and  individualities  as  strong  and  distinct  as 
those  of  the  men  and  women  we  meet  day  by  day;  in 
a  word,  to  do  what  only  a  creative  artist,  whether  he 
knows  himself  to  be  one  or  not,  can  do.  The  result 
is  that  the  student  who  would  learn  something  of  the 
real  lives  of  the  knights  and  ladies  of  the  days  of  chiv- 
alry must  turn  to  his  pages ;  and  the  man  or  boy 
whose  blood  is  stirred  by  tales  of  noble  adventure  in 
tourney  and  battle,  of  violence  and  tenderness  in  love 
and  war,  of  loyal  friendship  and  unswerving  devotion 
to  lady  and  king,  has  but  to  open  the  book  of  Sir 
Thomas  Malory,  and  find  what  he  has  sought. 

Since  the  book  is  what  it  is,  there  need  be  little 
wonder  that  such  a  mind  and  nature  as  Tennyson's 
felt  its  spell.  It  would  be  interesting  to  study  the 
Idylls  and  the  fifteenth  century  prose  work  side  by 
side,  and  see  just  what  the  poet  of  our  own  age  owed 
to  the  story-teller  four  hundred  years  before  him.  It 
would  be  found  that  in  some  of  the  poems  many  of  the 
incidents  were  purely  the  fruit  of  Tennyson's  imagina- 
tion. Having  taken  his  general  theme  from  Malory, 
he  was  quite  capable  of  enriching  the  story  itself  as 
abundantly  as  the  manner  of  its  telling.  In  the 
thought  and  philosophy  of  the  poems  there  is  indeed, 


10  INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH. 

as  a  rule,  more  of  tlie  nineteenth  century  than  of  the 
Middle  Ages ;  nor  should  we  complain  of  this  prac- 
tice of  a  modern  poet  telling  an  old  tale  for  modem 
readers.  Again,  especially  in  two  of  the  poems  con- 
tained in  this  selection,  Tennyson  has  adopted  the 
incidents  of  Malory's  narrative  almost  without  change. 
It  would  well  repay  the  interested  reader  to  turn  to 
the  eighteenth  book  of  Malory's  "  Morte  Darthur,"  and 
read  in  the  chapters  from  viii.  to  xx.  the  pitiful  tale 
of  Lancelot  and  Elaine  as  the  old  chronicler  told  it ; 
the  beauty  of  the  story  different  from  the  beauty  of 
the  poet's  work,  yet  in  its  way  no  less  winning,  the 
likenesses  and  variances  between  the  two  versions  of 
the  tale,  the  value  of  the  passage  as  a  specimen  of  the 
sturdy  old  English  which  Malory  wrote,  all  would  be 
felt  and  prized.  It  is  a  long  tale  in  Malory,  and  we 
can  but  refer  the  reader  to  it.  In  shorter  measure  he 
tells  the  story  from  which  Tennyson  made  most  of 
"  The  Passing  of  Arthur,"  and  this  passage,  for  a  sug- 
gestion of  the  purpose  which  the  reading  of  Malory 
would  serve,  we  venture  to  transcribe :  — 

"  Therefore,  said  Arthur  [to  Bedivere  after  the  battle  of 
which  they  were  the  only  survivors],  take  thou  Excalibur, 
my  good  sword,  and  go  with  it  to  yonder  water  side,  and 
when  thou  comest  there,  I  charge  thee  throw  my  sword  in 
that  water,  and  come  again^  and  tell  me  what  thou  there 
seest.  My  lord,  said  Bedivere,  your  commandment  shall  he 
done,  and  lightly  bring  you  word  again.  So  Sir  Bedivere 
departed,  and  by  the  way  he  beheld  that  noble  sword,  that 
the  pommel  and  haft  were  all  of  precious  stones,  and  then 
he  said  to  himself,  If  I  throw  this  rich  sword  in  the  water, 
thereof  shall  never  come  good,  but  harm  and  loss.  And 
then  Sir  Bedivere  hid  Excalibur  under  a  tree.  And  as  soon 
as  he  might  he  came  again  unto  the  king,  and  said  he  had 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH.  11 

been  at  the  water,  and  had  thrown  the  sword  into  the  water. 
What  sawest  thou  there  ?  said  the  king.  Sir,  he  said,  I 
saw  nothing  but  waves  and  winds.  That  is  untruly  said  of 
the«,  said  the  king;  therefore  go  thou  lightly  again,  and 
do  my  command  as  thou  art  to  nie  lief  and  dear,  spare  not, 
but  throw  it  in.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  returned  again,  and 
took  the  sword  in  his  hand ;  and  then  him  thought  sin  and 
shame  to  throw  away  that  noble  sword ;  and  so  eft  he  hid 
the  sword,  and  returned  again,  and  told  to  the  king  that  he 
had  been  at  the  water,  and  done  his  commandment.  What 
saw  thou  there  ?  said  the  king.  Sir,  he  said,  I  saw  nothing 
but  the  waters  wap  and  the  waves  wan.  Ah  traitor,  untrue, 
said  king  Arthur,  now  hast  thou  betrayed  me  twice.  Who 
would  have  wend  that  thou  that  hast  been  to  me  so  lief  and 
dear,  and  thou  art  named  a  noble  knight,  and  would  betray 
me  for  the  riches  of  the  sword.  But  now  go  again  lightly, 
for  thy  long  tarrying  putteth  me  in  great  jeopardy  of  my 
life,  for  I  have  taken  cold.  And  but  if  thou  do  now  as  I 
bid  thee,  if  ever  I  may  see  thee,  I  shall  slay  thee  with  mine 
own  hands,  for  thou  wouldest  for  my  rich  sword  see  me 
dead.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  departed,  and  went  to  the  sword, 
and  lightly  took  it  up,  and  went  to  the  water  side,  and  there 
he  bound  the  girdle  about  the  hilts,  and  then  he  threw  the 
sword  as  far  into  the  water  as  he  might,  and  there  came  an 
arm  and  an  hand  above  the  water,  and  met  it,  and  caught 
it,  and  so  shook  it  thrice  and  brandished,  and  then  vanished 
away  the  hand  with  the  sword  in  the  water.  So  Sir  Bedi- 
vere came  again  to  the  king,  and  told  him  what  he  saw. 
Alas,  said  the  king,  help  me  hence,  for  I  dread  me  I  have 
tarried  over  long.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  took  the  king  upon 
his  back,  and  so  went  with  him  to  that  water  side.  And 
when  they  were  at  the  water  side,  even  fast  by  the  bank, 
hove  a  little  barge,  with  many  fair  ladies  in  it,  and  among 
them  all  was  a  queen,  and  all  they  had  black  hoods,  and  all 
they  wept  and  shrieked  when  they  saw  king  Arthur.  Now 
put  me  into  the  barge,  said  the  king :  and  so  he  did  softly. 


12  INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH, 

And  there  received  him  three  queens  with  great  mourning, 
and  so  they  set  him  down,  and  in  one  of  their  laps  king 
Arthur  laid  his  head,  and  then  that  queen  said.  Ah,  dear 
brother,  why  have  ye  tarried  so  long  from  me  ?  Alas,  this 
wound  on  your  head  hath  caught  over  much  cold.  And  so 
then  they  rowed  from  the  land ;  and  Sir  Bedivere  beheld 
all  those  ladies  go  from  him.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  cried,  Ah, 
my  lord  Arthur,  what  shall  become  of  me  now  ye  go  from 
me,  and  leave  me  here  alone  among  mine  enemies.  Com- 
fort thyself,  said  the  king,  and  do  as  well  as  thou  mayest, 
for  in  me  is  no  trust  for  to  trust  in.  For  I  will  unto  the  vale 
of  Avilion,  to  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound.  And  if  thou 
hear  never  more  of  me,  pray  for  my  soul.  But  ever  the 
queens  and  the  ladies  wept  and  shrieked,  that  it  was  pity  to 
hear.  And  as  soon  as  Sir  Bedivere  had  lost  the  sight  of 
the  barge,  he  wept  and  wailed,  and  so  took  the  forest." 

The  more  curious  reader  may  compare  this  passage 
bit  by  bit,  if  he  will,  with  the  last  poem  of  the  pres- 
ent volume.  The  less  exact  may  be  content  with 
testing  the  truth  of  our  remark  about  related  books 
and  common  friends.  May  we  end  this  sketch  with 
yet  another  quotation  ?  Though  taken  from  Caxton's 
Preface  to  the  "  Morte  Darthur,"  the  serious  word  it 
speaks  to  his  readers  may  stand,  linking  again  the  old 
and  the  new,  as  well  before  Tennyson's  book  as  Sir 
Thomas  Malory's  :  — 

"  Wherein  they  shall  find  many  joyous  and  pleasant  his- 
tories, and  noble  and  renowned  acts  of  humanity,  gentleness, 
and  chivalry.  For  herein  may  be  seen  noble  chivalry, 
courtesy,  humanity,  friendliness,  hardiness,  love,  friendship, 
cowardice,  murder,  hate,  virtue,  and  sin.  Do  after  the 
good  and  leave  the  evil,  and  it  shall  bring  you  to  good  fame 
and  renomm^e.  And  for  to  pass  the  time  this  book  shall 
be  pleasant  to  read  in,  but  for  to  give  faith  and  belief  that 
all  is  true  that  is  contained  therein,  ye  be  at  your  liberty." 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

The  last  tall  son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent, 
And  tallest,  Gareth,  in  a  showerful  spring 
Stared  at  the  spate.     A  slender-shafted  pine 
Lost  footing,  fell,  and  so  was  whirl'd  away. 

5  "  How  he  went  down,"  said  Gareth, "  as  a  false  knight 
Or  evil  king  before  my  lance,  if  lance 
Were  mine  to  use  —  O  senseless  cataract, 
Bearing  all  down  in  thy  precipitancy  — 
And  yet  thou  art  but  swollen  with  cold  snows 

10  And  mine  is  living  blood :  thou  dost  His  will. 
The  Maker's,  and  not  knowest,  and  I  that  know, 
Have  strength  and  wit,  in  my  good  mother's  hall 
Linger  with  vacillating  obedience, 
Prison'd,  and  kept  and  coax'd  and  whistled  to  — 

15  Since  the  good  mother  holds  me  still  a  child  ! 
Good  mother  is  bad  mother  unto  me ! 
A  worse  were  better ;  yet  no  worse  would  L 

Gareth  and  Lynette,  though  one  of  the  last  Idylls  to  be 
written,  follows  '<  The  Coming  of  Arthur,"  and  recounts  one  of 
the  first  adventures  of  the  Table  Kound.  In  it  we  find  Arthur's 
court  full  of  the  gayety  and  joyousness  of  its  early  prime,  before 
treachery  and  sin  introduced  the  tragic  forces  which  brought  its 
dissolution.  For  the  story  in  its  primitive  form,  see  Malory,  Book 
VII.    Gareth  is  there  called  Beaumains. 

1.  Lot  was  the  aged  king  of  Orkney;  Bellicent,  his  queea, 
was  half-sister  to  Arthur. 

3.  Spate,  the  flooded  river. 


14  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

Heaven  yield  her  for  it,  but  in  me  put  force 
To  weary  her  ears  with  one  continuous  prayer, 

20  Until  she  let  me  fly  discaged  to  sweep 
In  ever-highering  eagle-circles  up 
To  the  great  Sun  of  Glory,  and  thence  swoop 
Down  upon  all  things  base,  and  dash  them  dead, 
A  knight  of  Arthur,  working  out  his  will, 

35  To  cleanse  the  world.    Why,  Gawain,  when  he  came 
With  Modred  hither  in  the  summer-time, 
Ask'd  me  to  tilt  with  him,  the  proven  knight. 
Modred  for  want  of  worthier  was  the  judge. 
Then  I  so  shook  him  in  the  saddle,  he  said, 

so '  Thou  hast  half  prevail'd  against  me,'  said  so  — 
he  — 
Tho'  Modred  biting  his  thin  lips  was  mute, 
For  he  is  alway  sullen :  what  care  I?  " 

And  Gareth  went,  and  hovering  round  her  chair 
Ask'd,  "  Mother,  tho'  ye  count  me  still  the  child, 

35  Sweet  mother,  do  ye  love  the  child  ?  "    She  laugh'd, 
"  Thou  art  but  a  wild-goose  to  question  it." 
"  Then,  mother,  an  ye  love  the  child,"  he  said, 
"  Being  a  goose  and  rather  tame  than  wild, 
Hear  the  child's  story."     "  Yea,  my  well-beloved, 

40  An  't  were  but  of  the  goose  and  golden  eggs." 

And  Gareth  answer'd  her  with  kindling  eyes : 
"  Nay,  nay,  good  mother,  but  this  Qgg  of  mine 
Was  finer  gold  than  any  goose  can  lay ; 
For  this  an  eagle,  a  royal  eagle,  laid 

15  Almost  beyond  eye-reach,  on  such  a  palm 

18.  Heaven  yield  her  for  it,  i.  e.,  reward  her. 
26.  Modred,  the  chief  traitor  of  the  Idylls. 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  18 

As  glitters  gilded  in  thy  Book  of  Hours. 
And  there  was  ever  haunting  round  the  palm 
A  lusty  youth,  but  poor,  who  often  saw 
The  splendor  sparkling  from  aloft,  and  thought, 

io '  An  I  could  climb  and  lay  my  hand  upon  it. 
Then  were  I  wealthier  than  a  leash  of  kings.' 
But  ever  when  he  reach'd  a  hand  to  climb. 
One  that  had  loved  him  from  his  childhood  caught 
And  stay'd  him, '  Climb  not  lest  thou  break  thy  neck, 

55 1  charge  thee  by  my  love,'  and  so  the  boy. 
Sweet  mother,  neither  clomb  nor  brake  his  neck. 
But  brake  his  very  heart  in  pining  for  it. 
And  past  away." 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 
"  True  love,  sweet  son,  had  risk'd  himself  and  climb'd. 
80  And  handed  down  the  golden  treasure  to  him." 

And  Gareth  answer'd  her  with  kindling  eyes : 
"  Gold  ?  said  I  gold  ?  —  ay  then,  why  he,  or  she, 
Or  whosoe'er  it  was,  or  half  the  world 
Had  ventured  —  had  the  thing  I  spake  of  been 

S5  Mere  gold  —  but  this  was  all  of  that  true  steel 
Whereof  they  forged  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  lightnings  play'd  about  it  in  the  storm, 
And  all  the  little  fowl  were  flurried  at  it. 
And  there  were  cries  and  clashings  in  the  nest, 

70  That  sent  him  from  his  senses  :  let  me  go." 

46.  Book  of  Hours,  an  illuminated  manuscript,  with  prayers 
for  the  hours  of  the  day. 

66.  Excalibur,  Arthur's  sword.  "  The  name  of  it,  said  the 
lady,  is  Excalibur,  that  is  as  much  to  say  as  cut-steel."  (Malory.) 
The  hero's  sword  was  always  given  a  name,  like  a  person,  for  a 
sp  rit  of  battle  was  fabled  to  dwell  in  it. 


16  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE, 

Then  Bellicent  bemoan'd  herself  and  said 
"  Hast  thou  no  pity  upon  my  loneliness  ? 
Lo,  where  thy  father  Lot  beside  the  hearth 
Lies  like  a  log,  and  all  but  smoulder'd  out ! 
"te  For  ever  since  when  traitor  to  the  King 
He  fought  against  him  in  the  barons'  war, 
And  Arthur  gave  him  back  his  territory, 
His  age  hath  slowly  droopt,  and  now  lies  there 
A  yet-warm  corpse,  and  yet  unburiable, 
80  No  more  ;  nor  sees,  nor  hears,  nor  speaks,  nor  knows 
And  both  thy  brethren  are  in  Arthur's  hall, 
Albeit  neither  loved  with  that  full  love 
I  feel  for  thee,  nor  worthy  such  a  love. 
Stay  therefore  thou ;  red  berries  charm  the  bird, 
85  And  thee,  mine  innocent,  the  jousts,  the  wars, 
Who  never  knewest  finger-ache,  nor  pang 
Of  wrench'd  or  broken  limb  —  an  often  chance 
In  those  brain-stunning  shocks,  and  tourney-falls, 
Frights  to  my  heart ;  but  stay :  follow  the  deer 
90  By  these  tall  firs  and  our  fast-falling  burns ; 
So  make  thy  manhood  mightier  day  by  day ; 
Sweet  is  the  chase :  and  I  will  seek  thee  out 
Some  comfortable  bride  and  fair,  to  grace 
Thy  climbing  life,  and  cherish  my  prone  year, 
95  Till  falling  into  Lot's  forgetfulness 
I  know  not  thee,  myself,  nor  anything. 
Stay,  my  best   son !   ye   are   yet   more   boy   than 
man." 

Then  Gareth :  "An  ye  hold  me  yet  for  child, 
Hear  yet  once  more  the  story  of  the  child. 
100  For,  mother,  there  was  once  a  king,  like  ours. 
The  prince  his  heir,  when  tall  and  marriageable, 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  Vt 

Ask'd  for  a  bride  ;  and  thereupon  the  king 

Set  two  before  him.    One  was  fair,  strong,  arm'd  — 

But  to  be  won  by  force  —  and  many  men 

105  Desired  her ;  one,  good  lack,  no  man  desired. 
And  these  were  the  conditions  of  the  king : 
That  save  he  won  the  first  by  force,  he  needs 
Must  wed  that  other,  whom  no  man  desired, 
A  red-faced  bride  who  knew  herself  so  vile 

no  That  evermore  she  long'd  to  hide  herself, 
Nor  fronted  man  or  woman,  eye  to  eye  — 
Yea  —  some  she  cleaved  to,  but  they  died  of  her. 
And  one  —  they  call'd  her  Fame  ;  and  one  —  O  mo« 

ther. 
How  can  ye  keep  me  tether'd  to  you  ?  —  Shame. 

U5  Man  am  I  grown,  a  man's  work  must  I  do. 
Follow  the  deer  ?  follow  the  Christ,  the  King, 
Live   pure,   speak   true,  right   wrong,   follow   the 

King  — 
Else,  wherefore  born  ?  " 

To  whom  the  mother  said : 
"  Sweet  son,  for  there  be  many  who  deem  him  not, 

120  Or  will  not  deem  him,  wholly  proven  King  — 
Albeit  in  mine  own  heart  I  knew  him  King 
When  I  was  frequent  with  him  in  my  youth, 
And  heard  him  kingly  speak,  and  doubted  him 
No  more  than  he,  himself  ;  but  felt  him  mine, 

125  Of  closest  kin  to  me  :  yet  —  wilt  thou  leave 
Thine  easeful  biding  here,  and  risk  thine  all, 
Life,  limbs,  for  one  that  is  not  proven  King  ? 

103.  This  line  is  as  above  in  all  the  texts.  It  would  seem 
more  natural  as  well  as  more  poetical  for  it  to  read:  "  One  was 
fair,  strong-armed." 


18  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

Stay,  till  the  cloud  that  settles  round  his  birth 
Hath  lifted  but  a  little.     Stay,  sweet  son." 

130      And  Gareth  answer'd  quickly  :  "  Not  an  hour, 
So  that  ye  yield  me  —  I  will  walk  thro'  fire, 
Mother,  to  gain  it  —  your  full  leave  to  go. 
Not  proven,  who  swept  the  dust  of  ruin'd  Rome 
From  off  the  threshold  of  the  realm,  and  crush'd 

135  The  idolaters,  and  made  the  people  free  ? 

Who  should  be  king  save  him  who  makes  us  free  ?  " 

So  when  the  Queen,  who  long  had  sought  in  vain 
To  break  him  from  the  intent  to  which  he  grew, 
Found  her  son's  will  unwaveringly  one, 

140  She  answer 'd  craftily  :  "  Will  ye  walk  thro'  fire  ? 
Who  walks  thro'  fire  will  hardly  heed  the  smoke. 
Ay,  go  then,  an  ye  must :  only  one  proof, 
Before  thou  ask  the  King  to  make  thee  knight, 
Of  thine  obedience  and  thy  love  to  me, 

146  Thy  mother,  —  I  demand." 

And  Gareth  cried  : 
"  A  hard  one,  or  a  hundred,  so  I  go. 
Nay  —  quick  !  the  proof  to  prove  me  to  the  quick !  " 

But  slowly  spake  the  mother  looking  at  him : 
"  Prince,  thou  shalt  go  disguised  to  Arthur's  hall, 
150  And  hire  thyself  to  serve  for  meats  and  drinks 
Among  the  scullions  and  the  kitchen-knaves, 
And  those  that  hand  the  dish  across  the  bar. 

128.  Arthur's  parentage,  as  we  read  in  "The  Coming  of  Ar- 
thur," and  in  the  old  stories,  was  shrouded  in  mystery.  Many 
held  that  he  was  the  son  of  Uther  Pendragon,  who  was  united  by 
enchantment  with  Ygerne,  the  wife  of  Gorlois. 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  19 

Nor  shalt  thou  tell  thy  name  to  any  one. 

And  thou  shalt  serve  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day." 

155      For  so  the  Queen  believed  that  when  her  son 
Beheld  his  only  way  to  glory  lead 
Low  down  thro'  villain  kitchen-vassalage, 
Her  own  true  Gareth  was  too  princely-proud 
To  pass  thereby  ;  so  should  he  rest  with  her, 

160  Closed  in  her  castle  from  the  sound  of  arms. 

Silent  awhile  was  Gareth,  then  replied : 
"  The  thrall  in  person  may  be  free  in  soul. 
And  I  shall  see  the  jousts.     Thy  son  am  I, 
And,  since  thou  art  my  mother,  must  obey. 
165 1  therefore  yield  me  freely  to  thy  will ; 
For  hence  will  I,  disguised,  and  hire  myself 
To  serve  with  scullions  and  with  kitchen-knaves  % 
Nor  tell  my  name  to  any  —  no,  not  the  King." 

Gareth  awhile  linger'd.     The  mother's  eye 
170  Full  of  the  wistful  fear  that  he  would  go. 

And  turning  toward  him  wheresoe'er  he  turn'd, 
Perplext  his  outward  purpose,  till  an  hour 
When,  waken'd  by  the  wind  which  with  full  voice 
Swept  bellowing  thro'  the  darkness  on  to  dawn, 
S75  He  rose,  and  out  of  slumber  calling  two 
That  still  had  tended  on  him  from  his  birth, 
Before  the  wakeful  mother  heard  him,  went. 

The  three  were  clad  like  tillers  of  the  soil. 
Southward  they  set  their  faces.     The  birds  made 
180  Melody  on  branch  and  melody  in  mid  air. 
The  damp  hill-slopes  were  quicken'd  into  green. 


20  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

And  the  live  green  had  kindled  into  flowers, 
For  it  was  past  the  time  of  Easter-day. 

So,  when  their  feet  were  planted  on  the  plain 
185  That  broaden'd  toward  the  base  of  Camelot, 
Far  off  they  saw  the  silver-misty  morn 
Rolling  her  smoke  about  the  royal  mount, 
That  rose  between  the  forest  and  the  field. 
At  times  the  summit  of  the  high  city  flash'd  ; 
190  At  times  the  spires  and  turrets  half-way  down 
Prick'd  thro'  the  mist ;  at  times  the  great  gate  shone 
Only,  that  open'd  on  the  field  below  : 
Anon,  the  whole  fair  city  had  disappear'd. 

Then  those  who  went  with  Gareth  were  amazed, 
195  One  crying,  "  Let  us  go  no  further,  lord : 
Here  is  a  city  of  enchanters,  built 
By  fairy  kings."     The  second  echo'd  him, 
"  Lord,  we  have  heard  from  our  wise  man  at  home 
To  northward,  that  this  king  is  not  the  King, 
200  But  only  changeling  out  of  Fairyland, 
Who  drave  the  heathen  hence  by  sorcery 
And  Merlin's  glamour."     Then  the  first  again, 
"  Lord,  there  is  no  such  city  anywhere. 
But  all  a  vision." 

Gareth  answer'd  them 
205  With  laughter,  swearing  he  had  glamour  enow 

185.  Camelot,  a  legendary  city  which  men  have  attempted  to 
identify  with  various  ancient  towns  in  Wales  and  the  west  of 
England.  Tennyson  here  expressly  makes  it  an  ideal  city  of  the 
imagination. 

202.  Glamour,  enchantment;  curiously  enough  this  word  was 
originally  a  corrupt  form  of  "  grammar."     See  the  Dictionaries. 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  21 

In  his  own  blood,  his  princedom,  youth,  and  hopes, 
To  plunge  old  Merlin  in  the  Arabian  sea ; 
So  push'd  them  all  unwilling  toward  the  gate. 
And  there  was  no  gate  like  it  under  heaven. 

21C  For  barefoot  on  the  keystone,  which  was  lined 
And  rippled  like  an  ever-fleeting  wave. 
The  Lady  of  the  Lake  stood :  all  her  dress 
Wept  from  her  sides  as  water  flowing  away ; 
But  like  the  cross  her  great  and  goodly  arms 

215  Stretch'd  under  all  the  cornice  and  upheld : 
And  drops  of  water  fell  from  either  hand  ; 
And  down  from  one  a  sword  was  hung,  from  one 
A  censer,  either  worn  with  wind  and  storm  ; 
And  o'er  her  breast  floated  the  sacred  fish ; 

220  And  in  the  space  to  left  of  her,  and  right, 
Were  Arthur's  wars  in  weird  devices  done, 
New  things  and  old  co-twisted,  as  if  Time 
Were  nothing,  so  inveterately  that  men 
Were  giddy  gazing  there  ;  and  over  all 

225  High  on  the  top  were  those  three  queens,  the  friends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his  need. 

Then  those  with  Gareth  for  so  long  a  space 
Stared  at  the  figures  that  at  last  it  seem'd 
The  dragon-boughts  and  elvish  emblemings 
230  Began  to  move,  seethe,  twine,  and  curl :  they  call'd 
To  Gareth,  "  Lord,  the  gateway  is  alive." 

And  Gareth  likewise  on  them  fixt  his  eyes 
So  long  that  even  to  him  they  seem'd  to  move. 
Out  of  the  cifcy  a  blast  of  music  peal'd. 

212.  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  a  mystical  personage,  who  was 
a  kind  of  supernatural  guardian  of  Arthur.  See  "  The  Coining 
of  Arthur,"  and  "  The  Passing  of  Arthur." 


22  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

235  Back  from  the  gate  started  the  three,  to  whom 
From  out  thereunder  came  an  ancient  man, 
Long-bearded,  saying,  "  Who  be  ye,  my  sons  ?  " 

Then  Gareth :  "  We  be  tillers  of  the  soil, 
•    Who  leaving  share  in  furrow  come  to  see 
240  The  glories  of  our  King  :  but  these,  my  men,  — 
Your  city  moved  so  weirdly  in  the  mist  — 
Doubt  if  the  King  be  king  at  all,  or  come 
From  Fairyland ;  and  whether  this  be  built 
By  magic,  and  by  fairy  kings  and  queens  ; 
245  Or  whether  there  be  any  city  at  all. 
Or  all  a  vision :  and  this  music  now 
Hath  scared  them  both,  but  tell  thou  these  the 
truth." 

Then  that  old  Seer  made  answer,  playing  on  him 
And  saying :  "  Son,  I  have  seen  the  good  ship  sail 

250  Keel  upward,  and  mast  downward,  in  the  heavens^ 
And  solid  turrets  topsy-turvy  in  air  : 
And  here  is  truth  ;  but  an  it  please  thee  not, 
Take  thou  the  truth  as  thou  hast  told  it  me. 
For  truly,  as  thou  say  est,  a  fairy  king 

255  And  fairy  queens  have  built  the  city,  son  ; 
They  came  from  out  a  sacred  mountain  cleft 
Toward  the  sunrise,  each  with  harp  in  hand, 
And  built  it  to  the  music  of  their  harps. 
And,  as  thou  sayest,  it  is  enchanted,  son, 

260  For  there  is  nothing  in  it  as  it  seems 

Saving  the  King ;  tho'  some  there  be  that  hold 
The  King  a  shadow,  and  the  city  real : 
Yet  take  thou  heed  of  him,  for,  so  thou  pass 
Beneath  this  archway,  then  wilt  thou  become 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  23 

265  A  thrall  to  his  enchantments,  for  the  King 
Will  bind  thee  by  such  vows  as  is  a  shame 
A  man  should  not  be  bound  by,  yet  the  which 
No  man  can  keep ;  but,  so  thou  dread  to  swear, 
Pass  not  beneath  this  gateway,  but  abide 

270  Without,  among  the  cattle  of  the  field. 
For  an  ye  heard  a  music,  like  enow 
They  are  building  still,  seeing  the  city  is  built 
To  music,  therefore  never  built  at  all. 
And  therefore  built  for  ever." 

Gareth  spake 
275  Anger'd  :  "  Old  master,  reverence  thine  own  bear^ 
That  looks  as  white  as  utter  truth,  and  seems 
Wellnigh  as  long  as  thou  art  statured  tall ! 
Why  mockest  thou  the  stranger  that  hath  been 
To  thee  fair-spoken  ?  " 

But  the  Seer  replied  : 
280  "  Know  ye  not  then  the  Eiddling  of  the  Bards  : 
'  Confusion,  and  illusion,  and  relation. 
Elusion,  and  occasion,  and  evasion  ?  ' 
I  mock  thee  not  but  as  thou  mockest  me. 
And  all  that  see  thee,  for  thou  art  not  who 
285  Thou  seemest,  but  I  know  thee  who  thou  art. 
And  now  thou  goest  up  to  mock  the  King, 
Who  cannot  brook  the  shadow  of  any  lie." 

Un mockingly  the  mocker  ending  here 
Turn'd  to  the  right,  and  past  along  the  plain  ; 

273,  274.  The  myth  of  a  city  built  to  music  is  an  old  one  :  so 
Amphion  raised  the  walls  of  Thebes  to  the  music  of  his  lyre. 

280.  Like  the  Grecian  oracles  the  ancient  Celtic  seers  cast 
their  enigmatic  prophecies  in  metrical  form. 


24  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE, 

290  Whom  Gareth  looking  after  said  ;  "  My  men, 
Our  one  white  lie  sits  like  a  little  ghost 
Here  on  the  threshold  of  our  enterprise. 
Let  love  be  blamed  for  it,  not  she,  nor  I : 
Well,  we  will  make  amends.'* 

With  all  good  cheer 
295  He  spake  and  laugh'd,  then  enter'd  with  his  twain 
Camelot,  a  city  of  shadowy  palaces 
And  stately,  rich  in  emblem  and  the  work 
Of  ancient  kings  who  did  their  days  in  stone ; 
Which  Merlin's  hand,  the  Mage  at  Arthur's  court, 
300  Knowing  all  arts,  had  touch'd,  and  everywhere, 
At  Arthur's  ordinance,  tij^t  with  lessening  peak 
And  pinnacle,  and  had  made  it  spire  to  heaven. 
And  ever  and  anon  a  knight  would  pass 
Outward,  or  inward  to  the  hall :  his  arms 
305  Clash'd  ;  and  the  sound  was  good  to  Gareth's  ear. 
And  out  of  bower  and  casement  shyly  glanced 
Eyes  of  pure  women,  wholesome  stars  of  love ; 
And  all  about  a  healthful  people  stept 
As  in  the  presence  of  a  gracious  king. 

310      Then  into  hall  Gareth  ascending  heard 
A  voice,  the  voice  of  Arthur,  and  beheld 
Far  over  heads  in  that  long-vaulted  hall 
The  splendor  of  the  presence  of  the  King 
Throned,    and    delivering    doom  —  and    look'd    no 
more  — 

315  But  felt  his  young  heart  hammering  in  his  ears 
And  thought,  "  For  this  half-shadow  of  a  lie 
The  truthful  King  will  doom  me  when  I  speak." 
Yet  pressing  on,  tho'  all  in  fear  to  find 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  25 

Sir  Gawain  or  Sir  Modred,  saw  nor  one 
320  Nor  other,  but  in  all  the  listening  eyes 

Of  those  tall  knights  that  rano^ed  about  the  throne 
Clear  honor  shining  like  the  dewy  star 
Of  dawn,  and  faith  in  their  great  King,  with  pure 
Affection,  and  the  light  of  victory, 
325  And  glory  gain'd,  and  evermore  to  gain. 

Then  came  a  widow  crying  to  the  King : 
"  A  boon,  Sir  King  ?     Thy  father,  Uther,  reft 
From  my  dead  lord  a  field  with  violence  ; 
For  howsoe'er  at  first  he  proffer'd  gold, 

830  Yet,  for  the  field  was  pleasant  in  our  eyes, 
We  yielded  not ;  and  then  he  reft  us  of  it 

,    Perforce  and  left  us  neither  gold  nor  field." 

Said  Arthur,  "  Whether  would  ye  ?  gold  or  field  ?  '* 
To  whom  the  woman  weeping,  "  Nay,  my  lord, 
385  The  field  was  pleasant  in  my  husband's  eye." 

And  Arthur  :  "  Have  thy  pleasant  field  again, 
And  thrice  the  gold  for  Uther's  use  thereof, 
According  to  the  years.     No  boon  is  here,  ' 

But  justice,  so  thy  say  be  proven  true. 
m  Accursed,  who  from  the  wrongs  his  father  did 
Would  shape  himself  a  right  I  " 

And  while  she  past, 
Came  yet  another  widow  crying  to  him : 
"  A  boon.  Sir  King  !     Thine  enemy.  King,  am  I. 
With  thine  own  hand  thou  slewest  my  dear  lord, 
345  A  knight  of  Uther  in  the  barons'  war. 

When  Lot  and  many  another  rose  and  fought 


26  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

Against  thee,  saying  thou  wert  basely  born. 

I  held  with  these,  and  loathe  to  ask  thee  aught. 

Yet  lo !  my  husband's  brother  had  my  son 
J50  Thrall'd  in  his  castle,  and  hath  starved  him  dead 

And  standeth  seized  of  that  inheritance 

Which  thou  that  slewest  the  sire  hast  left  the  son. 

So,  tho'  I  scarce  can  ask  it  thee  for  hate. 

Grant  me  some  knight  to  do  the  battle  for  me, 
365  Kill  the  foul  thief,  and  wreak  me  for  my  son." 

Then  strode  a  good  knight  forward,  crying  to  him, 
"  A  boon,  Sir  King  !     I  am  her  kinsman,  I. 
Give  me  to  right  her  wrong,  and  slay  the  man." 

Then  came  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal,  and  cried, 
860  "  A  boon.  Sir  King !  even  that  thou  grant  her  none. 
This  railer,  that  hath  mock'd  thee  in  full  hall  — 
None ;  or  the  wholesome  boon  of  gyve  and  gag." 

But  Arthur  :  "  We  sit  King,  to  help  the  wrong'd 
Thro'  all  our  realm.     The  woman  loves  her  lord. 

365  Peace  to  thee,  woman,  with  thy  loves  and  hates ! 
The  kings  of  old  had  doom'd  thee  to  the  flames ; 
Aurelius  Emrys  would  have  scourged  thee  dead. 
And  Uther  slit  thy  tongue  ;  but  get  thee  hence  — 
Lest  that  rough  humor  of  the  kings  of  old 

370  Return  upon  me  !     Thou  that  art  her  kin. 
Go  likewise  ;  lay  him  low  and  slay  him  not, 

359.  Sir  Kay,  Arthur's  steward,  the  butt  of  the  court  wit,  and 
the  Thersites  of  the  Arthurian  story. 

367.  Aurelius  Emrys,  a  mythical  king  of  Britain.  Accord- 
ing to  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth's  "  Historia  Regum  Britannise," 
he  preceded  Uther  Pendragon. 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  27 

But  bring  him  here,  that  I  may  judge  the  right, 
According  to  the  justice  of  the  King ; 
Then,  be  he  guilty,  by  that  deathless  King 
375  Who  lived  and  died  for  men,  the  man  shall  die." 

Then  came  in  hall  the  messenger  of  Mark, 
A  name  of  evil  savor  in  the  land, 
The  Cornish  king.     In  either  hand  he  bore 
What  dazzled  all,  and  shone  far-off  as  shines 

380  A  field  of  charlock  in  the  sudden  sun 

Between  two  showers,  a  cloth  of  palest  gold, 
Which  down  he  laid  before  the  throne,  and  knelt, 
Delivering  that  his  lord,  the  vassal  king, 
Was  ev'n  upon  his  way  to  Camelot ; 

385  For  having  heard  that  Arthur  of  his  grace 
Had  made  his  goodly  cousin  Tristram  knight. 
And,  for  himself  was  of  the  greater  state. 
Being  a  king,  he  trusted  his  liege-lord 
Would  yield  him  this  large  honor  all  the  more  ; 

390  So  pray'd  him  well  to  accept  this  cloth  of  gold. 
In  token  of  true  heart  and  fealty. 

Then  Arthur  cried  to  rend  the  cloth,  to  rend 
In  pieces,  and  so  cast  it  on  the  hearth. 
An  oak-tree  smouldered  there.    "  The  goodly  knight ! 

395  What!  shall  the  shield  of  Mark  stand  among  these?  " 
For,  midway  down  the  side  of  that  long  hall, 
A  stately  pile,  —  whereof  along  the  front. 
Some  blazon'd,  some  but  carven,  and  some  blank, 
There  ran  a  treble  range  of  stony  shields,  — 

100  Rose,  and  high-arching  overbrow'd  the  hearth. 
And  under  every  shield  a  knight  was  named. 
For  this  was  Arthur's  custom  in  his  hall : 


28  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

When  some  good  knight  had  done  one  noble  deed. 
His  arms  were  carven  only  ;  but  if  twain, 

405  His  arms  were  blazon'd  also  ;  but  if  none, 
The  shield  was  blank  and  bare,  without  a  sign 
Saving  the  name  beneath :  and  Gareth  saw 
The  shield  of  Gawain  blazon'd  rich  and  bright. 
And  Modred's  blank  as  death  ;  and  Arthur  cried 

410  To  rend  the  cloth  and  cast  it  on  the  hearth. 

"  More  like  are  we  to  reave  him  of  his  crown 
Than  make  him  knight  because  men  call  him  king. 
The  kings  we  found,  ye  know  we  stay'd  their  hands 
From  war  among  themselves,  but  left  them  kings ; 

415  Of  whom  were  any  bounteous,  merciful. 

Truth-speaking,  brave,  good  livers,  them  we  enrolFd 
Among  us,  and  they  sit  within  our  hall. 
But  Mark  hath  tarnish'd  the  great  name  of  king, 
As  Mark  would  sully  the  low  state  of  churl ; 

420  And,  seeing  he  hath  sent  us  cloth  of  gold, 
Return,  and  meet,  and  hold  him  from  our  eyes, 
Lest  we  should  lap  him  up  in  cloth  of  lead. 
Silenced  for  ever  —  craven  —  a  man  of  plots, 
Craft,  poisonous  counsels,  wayside  ambushings  — 

425  No  fault  of  thine  :  let  Kay  the  seneschal 
Look  to  thy  wants,  and  send  thee  satisfied  — 
Accursed,  who  strikes  nor  lets  the  hand  be  seen !  " 

And  many  another  suppliant  crying  came 
With  noise  of  ravage  wrought  by  beast  and  man, 
430  And  evermore  a  knight  would  ride  away. 

422.  In  mediseval  times  lead  was  used  in  making  coffins.  In 
our  older  poetry  "  to  be  lapped  in  lead,"  regularly  means  to  be 
buried. 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  29 

Last,  Gareth  leaning  both  hands  heavily 
Down  on  the  shoulders  of  the  twain,  his  men, 
Approach'd  between  them  toward  the  King,  and 

ask'd, 
"  A  boon,  Sir  King," — his  voice  was  all  ashamed,  — 
435  "  For  see  ye  not  how  weak  and  hunger-worn 
I  seem  —  leaning  on  these  ?  grant  me  to  serve 
For  meat  and  drink  among  thy  kitchen-knaves 
A  twelvemonth  and  a  day,  nor  seek  my  name. 
Hereafter  I  will  fight." 

To  him  the  King  % 
440  "  A  goodly  youth  and  worth  a  goodlier  boon  ! 
But  so  thou  wilt  no  goodlier,  then  must  Kay, 
The  master  of  the  meats  and  drinks,  be  thine," 

He  rose  and  past ;  then  Kay,  a  man  of  mien 
Wan-sallow  as  the  plant  that  feels  itself 
445  Root-bitten  by  white  lichen  : 

"  Lo  ye  now ! 
This  fellow  hath  broken  from  some  abbey,  where, 
God  wot,  he  had  not  beef  and  brewis  enow. 
However  that  might  chance  !  but  an  he  work, 
Like  any  pigeon  will  I  cram  his  crop, 
450  And  sleeker  shall  he  shine  than  any  hog." 

Then  Lancelot  standing  near :  "  Sir  Seneschal, 
Sleuth-hound  thou  knowest,  and  gray,  and  all  the 

hounds ; 
A  horse  thou  knowest,  a  man  thou  dost  not  know; 
Broad  brows  and  fair,  a  fluent  hair  and  fine, 
455  High  nose,  a  nostril  large  and  fine,  and  hands 


30  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

Large,  fair,  and  fine !  —  Some  young  lad's  mys* 

tery  — 
But,  or  from  sheepcot  or  king's  hall,  the  boy 
Is  noble-natured.     Treat  him  with  all  grace. 
Lest  he  should  come  to  shame  thy  judging  of  him." 

160      Then    Kay :    "  What   murmurest   thou   of   mys- 
tery ? 
Think  ye  this  fellow  will  poison  the  King's  dish  ? 
Nay,  for  he  spake  too  fool-like ;  mystery  ! 
Tut,  an  the  lad  were  noble,  he  had  ask'd 
For  horse  and  armor :  fair  and  fine,  forsooth ! 

465  Sir  Fine-face,  Sir  Fair-hands  ?  but  see  thou  to  it 
That  thine  own  fineness,  Lancelot,  some  fine  day 
Undo  thee  not  —  and  leave  my  man  to  me." 

So  Gareth  all  for  glory  underwent 
The  sooty  yoke  of  kitchen -vassalage, 

470  Ate  with  young  lads  his  portion  by  the  door, 
And  couch'd  at  night  with  grimy  kitchen-knaves. 
And  Lancelot  ever  spake  him  pleasantly. 
But  Kay  the  seneschal,  who  loved  him  not. 
Would  hustle  and  harry  him,  and  labor  him 

m  Beyond  his  comrade  of  the  hearth,  and  set 
To  turn  the  broach,  draw  water,  or  hew  wood, 
Or  grosser  tasks  ;  and  Gareth  bow'd  himself 
With  all  obedience  to  the  King,  and  wrought 
All  kind  of  service  with  a  noble  ease 

480  That  graced  the  lowliest  act  in  doing  it. 

And  when  the  thralls  had  talk  among  themselves. 
And  one  would  praise  the  love  that  linkt  the  King 

465-467.  A  touch  of  dramatic  irony,  whereby  the  tragedy  to 
come  is  lightly  and  unwittingly  predicted. 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE,  81 

And  Lancelot  —  how  the  King  had  saved  his  life 
In  battle  twice,  and  Lancelot  once  the  King's  — 

485  For  Lancelot  was  first  in  the  tournament, 
But  Arthur  mightiest  on  the  battlefield  — - 
Gareth  was  glad.     Or  if  some  other  told 
How  once  the  wandering  forester  at  dawn, 
Far  over  the  blue  tarns  and  hazy,  seas, 

490  On  Caer-Eryri's  highest  found  the  King, 
A  naked  babe,  of  whom  the  Prophet  spake, 
"  He  passes  to  the  Isle  Avilion, 
He  passes  and  is  heal'd  and  cannot  die  "  — 
Gareth  was  glad.     But  if  their  talk  were  foul, 

495  Then  would  he  whistle  rapid  as  any  lark, 
Or  carol  some  old  roundelay,  and  so  loud 
That  first  they  raock'd,  but,  after,  reverenced  him. 
Or  Gareth,  telling  some  prodigious  tale 
Of  knights  who  sliced  a  red  life-bubbling  way 

500  Thro'  twenty  folds  of  twisted  dragon,  held 
All  in  a  gap-mouth'd  circle  his  good  mates 
Lying  or  sitting  round  him,  idle  hands. 
Charm 'd ;  till  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal,  would  come 
Blustering  upon  them,  like  a  sudden  wind 

505  Among  dead  leaves,  and  drive  them  all  apart. 
Or  when  the  thralls  had  sport  among  themselves, 
So  there  were  any  trial  of  mastery. 
He,  by  two  yards  in  casting  bar  or  stone. 
Was  counted  best ;  and  if  there  chanced  a  joust, 

510  So  that  Sir  Kay  nodded  him  leave  to  go. 

Would  hurry  thither,  and  when  he  saw  the  knights 
Clash  like  the  coming  and  retiring  wave, 

492.  Avilion,  like  the  Fortunate  Isles  of  the  Mediterranean 
peoples,  Avilion,  or  Avalon,  was  a  mystical  Isle  of  the  Blessed 
whither  Celtic  heroes  were  transported  to  live  eternally. 


82  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

And  the  spear  spring,  and  good  horse  reel,  the  boy 
Was  half  beyond  himself  for  ecstasy. 

515      So  for  a  month  he  wrought  among  the  thralls ; 
But  in  the  weeks  that  follow'd,  the  good  Queen, 
Repentant  of  the  word  she  made  him  swear. 
And  saddening  in  her  childless  castle,  sent. 
Between  the  in-crescent  and  de-crescent  moon, 

520  Arms  for  her  son,  and  loosed  him  from  his  vow. 

This,  Gareth  hearing  from  a  squire  of  Lot 
With  whom  he  used  to  play  at  tourney  once, 
When  both  were  children,  and  in  lonely  haunts 
Woujd  scratch  a  ragged  oval  on  the  sand, 

525  And  each  at  either  dash  from  either  end  — 
Shame  never  made  girl  redder  than  Gareth  joy. 
He  laugh'd  ;  he  sprang.    "  Out  of  the  smoke,  at  once 
I  leap  from  Satan's  foot  to  Peter's  knee  — 
These  news  be  mine,  none  other's  —  nay,  the  King's — 

530  Descend  into  the  city :  "  whereon  he  sought 
The  King  alone,  and  found,  and  told  him  all. 

"  I  have  stagger'd  thy  strong  Gawain  in  a  tilt 
For  pastime  ;  yea,  he  said  it :  joust  can  I. 
Make  me  thy  knight  —  in  secret !  let  my  name 
536  Be  hidd'n,  and  give  me  the  first  quest,  I  spring 
Like  flame  from  ashes." 

Here  the  King's  calm  eye 
Fell  on,  and  check'd,  and  made  him  flush,  and  bow 
Lowly,  to  kiss  his  hand,  who  answer'd  him  i 
"  Son,  the  good  mother  let  me  know  thee  here, 
640  And  sent  her  wish  that  I  would  yield  thee  thine. 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  33 

Make  thee  my  knight  ?  my  knights  are  sworn  to  vows 
Of  utter  hardihood,  utter  gentleness, 
And,  loving,  utter  faithfulness  in  love, 
And  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King.'* 

545      Then  Gareth,  lightly  springing  from  his  knees : 
"  My  King,  for  hardihood  I  can  promise  thee. 
For  uttermost  obedience  make  demand 
Of  whom  ye  gave  me  to,  the  Seneschal, 
No  mellow  master  of  the  meats  and  drinks  ! 

550  And  as  for  love,  God  wot,  I  love  not  yet, 
But  love  I  shall,  God  willing." 

And  the  King : 
"  Make  thee  my  knight  in  secret  ?  yea,  but  he, 
Our  noblest  brother,  and  our  truest  man. 
And  one  with  me  in  all,  he  needs  must  know." 

"is      "  Let  Lancelot  know,  my  King,  let  Lancelot  know. 
Thy  noblest  and  thy  truest !  " 

And  the  King : 
"  But  wherefore  would  ye  men  should  wonder  at 

you? 
Nay,  rather  for  the  sake  of  me,  their  King, 
And  the  deed's  sake  my  knighthood  do  the  deed, 
560  Than  to  be  noised  of." 

Merrily  Gareth  ask'd  s 
"  Have  I  not  earn'd  my  cake  in  baking  of  it  ? 
Let  be  my  name  until  I  make  my  name ! 
My  deeds  will  speak  :  it  is  but  for  a  day." 
So  with  a  kindly  hand  on  Gareth's  arm 


34  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

o65  Smiled  the  great  King,  and  half-unwillingly 
Loving  his  lusty  youthhood  yielded  to  him. 
Then,  after  summoning  Lancelot  privily : 
"  I  have  given  him  the  first  quest :  he  is  not  proven. 
Look  therefore,  when  he  calls  for  this  in  hall, 

670  Thou  get  to  horse  and  follow  him  far  away. 
Cover  the  lions  on  thy  shield,  and  see. 
Far  as  thou  mayest,  he  be  nor  ta'en  nor  slain.'* 

Then  that  same  day  there  past  into  the  hall 
A  damsel  of  high  lineage,  and  a  brow 
575  May-blossom,  and  a  cheek  of  apple-blossom, 
Hawk-eyes ;  and  lightly  was  her  slender  nose 
Tip-tilted  like  the  petal  of  a  flower : 
She  into  hall  past  with  her  page  and  cried : 

"  O  King,  for' thou  hast  driven  the  foe  without, 
580  See  to  the  foe  within  !  bridge,  ford,  beset 
By  bandits,  every  one  that  owns  a  tower 
The  lord  for  half  a  league.     Why  sit  ye  there  ? 
Rest  would  I  not.  Sir  King,  an  I  were  king, 
Till  even  the  lonest  hold  were  all  as  free 
585  From  cursed  bloodshed  as  thine  altar-cloth 
From  that  best  blood  it  is  a  sin  to  spill." 

"  Comfort  thyself,'*  said  Arthur,  "  I  nor  mine 
Rest :  so  my  knighthood  keep  the  vows  they  swore, 
The  wastest  moorland  of  our  realm  shall  be 
590  Safe,  damsel,  as  the  centre  of  this  hall. 
What  is  thy  name  ?  thy  need  ?  " 

"  My  name  ?  "  she  said  — 
*'  Lynette,  my  name ;  noble  ;  my  need,  a  knight 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  36 

To  combat  for  my  sister,  L3^onors, 

A  lady  of  high  lineage,  of  great  lands, 

595  And  comely,  yea,  and  comelier  than  myself. 
She  lives  in  Castle  Perilous :  a  river 
Runs  in  three  loops  about  her  living-place ; 
And  o'er  it  are  three  passings,  and  three  knights 
Defend  the  passings,  brethren,  and  a  fourth, 

600  And  of  that  four  the  mightiest,  holds  her  stay'd 
In  her  own  castle,  and  so  besieges  her 
To  break  her  will,  and  make  her  wed  with  him ; 
And  but  delays  his  purport  till  thou  send 
To  do  the  battle  with  him  thy  chief  man 

605  Sir  Lancelot,  whom  he  trusts  to  overthrow ; 
Then  wed,  with  glory  :  but  she  will  not  wed 
Save  whom  she  loveth,  or  a  holy  life. 
Now  therefore  have  I  come  for  Lancelot." 

Then  Arthur  mindful  of  Sir  Gareth  ask'd : 
610  "  Damsel,  ye  know  this  Order  lives  to  crush 
All  wrongers  of  the  realm.     But  say,  these  four. 
Who  be  they  ?     What  the  fashion  of  the  men  ?  " 

"  They  be  of  foolish  fashion,  O  Sir  King, 
The  fashion  of  that  old  knight-errantry 

615  Who  ride  abroad,  and  do  but  what  they  will ; 
Courteous  or  bestial  from  the  moment,  such 
As  have  nor  law  nor  king ;  and  three  of  these 
Proud  in  their  fantasy  call  themselves  the  Day, 
Morning-Star,  and  Noon-Sun,  and  Evening-Star, 

620  Being  strong  fools  ;  and  never  a  whit  more  wise 
The  fourth,  who  alway  rideth  arm'd  in  black, 
A  huge  man-beast  of  boundless  savagery. 
He  names  himself  the  Night  and  oftener  Death, 


36  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

And  wears  a  helmet  mounted  with  a  skull, 
C25  And  bears  a  skeleton  figured  on  his  arms, 
To  show  that  who  may  slay  or  scape  the  three, 
Slain  by  himself,  shall  enter  endless  night. 
And  all  these  four  be  fools,  but  mighty  men. 
And  therefore  am  I  come  for  Lancelot." 

68d      Hereat  Sir  Gareth  calFd  from  where  he  rose, 
A  head  with  kindling  eyes  above  the  throng, 
*•  A  boon.  Sir  King  —  this  quest !  "  then  —  for  he 

mark'd 
Ray  near  him  groaning  like  a  wounded  bull  — 
"  Yea,  King,  thou  knowest  thy  kitchen-knave  am  I, 

635  And  mighty  thro'  thy  meats  and  drinks  am  I, 
And  I  can  topple  over  a  hundred  such. 
Thy  promise.  King,"  and  Arthur  glancing  at  him, 
Brought  down  a  momentary  brow.   "  Rough,  sudden, 
And  pardonable,  worthy  to  be  knight  — 

840  Go  therefore,"  and  all  hearers  were  amazed. 

But  on  the  damsel's  forehead  shame,  pride,  wrath 
Slew  the  may-white :  she  lifted  either  arm, 
"  Fie  on  thee.  King  !    I  ask'd  for  thy  chief  knight. 
And  thou  hast  given  me  but  a  kitchen-knave." 
645  Then  ere  a  man  in  hall  could  stay  her,  turn'd, 
Fled  down  the  lane  of  access  to  the  King, 
Took  horse,  descended  the  slope  street,  and  past 
The  weird  white  gate,  and  paused  without,  beside 
The  field  of  tourney,  murmuring  "  kitchen-knave  !  '' 

850      Now  two  great  entries  open'd  from  the  hall. 
At  one  end  one  that  gave  upon  a  range 
Of  level  pavement  where  the  King  would  pace 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  3f 

At  sunrise,  gazing  over  plain  and  wood ; 
And  down  from  this  a  lordly  stairway  sloped 

655  Till  lost  in  blowing  trees  and  tops  of  towers ; 
And  out  by  this  main  doorway  past  the  King. 
But  one  was  counter  to  the  hearth,  and  rose 
Hio'h  that  the  highest-crested  helm  could  ride 
Therethro'  nor  graze  ;  and  by  this  entry  fled 

660  The  damsel  in  her  wrath,  and  on  to  this 
Sir  Gareth  strode,  and  saw  without  the  door 
King  Arthur's  gift,  the  worth  of  half  a  town, 
A  war-horse  of  the  best,  and  near  it  stood 
The  two  that  out  of  north  had  follow'd  him. 

665  This  bare  a  maiden  shield,  a  casque  ;  that  held 
The  horse,  the  spear  ;  whereat  Sir  Gareth  loosed 
A  cloak  that  dropt  from  collar-bone  to  heel, 
A  cloth  of  roughest  web,  and  cast  it  down, 
And  from  it,  like  a  fuel-smother'd  fire 

670  That  lookt  half -dead,  brake  bright,  and  flash'd  as 
those 
Dull-coated  things,  that  making  slide  apart 
Their  dusk  wing-cases,  all  beneath  there  burns 
A  jewell'd  harness,  ere  they  pass  and  fly. 
So  Gareth  ere  he  parted  flash'd  in  arms. 

675  Then  as  he  donn'd  the  helm,  and  took  the  shield 
And  mounted  horse  and  graspt  a  spear,  of  grain 
Storm-strengthen 'd  on  a  windy  site,  and  tipt 
With  trenchant  steel,  around  him  slowly  prest 
The  people,  while  from  out  of  kitchen  came 

680  The  thralls  in  throng,  and  seeing  who 'had  work'd 
Lustier  than  any,  and  whom  they  could  but  love. 
Mounted  in  arms,  threw  up  their  caps  and  cried. 
"  God  bless  the  King,  and  all  his  fellowship !  " 
And  on  thro'  lanes  of  shouting  Gareth  rode 

685  Down  the  slope  street,  and  past  without  the  gate. 


38  GAEETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

So  Gareth  past  with  joy  ;  but  as  the  cur 
Pluckt  from  the  cur  he  fights  with,  ere  his  cause 
Be  cool'd  by  fighting,  follows,  being  named, 
His  owner,  but  remembers  all,  and  growls 
690  Remembering,  so  Sir  Kay  beside  the  door 
M utter 'd  in  scorn  of  Gareth  whom  he  used 
To  harry  and  hustle. 

"  Bound  upon  a  quest 
With   horse    and   arms  —  the  King  hath  past  his 

time  — 
My  scullion  knave  !     Thralls,'to  your  work  again, 

695  For  an  your  fire  be  low  ye  kindle  mine  ! 

Will  there  be  dawn  in  West  and  eve  in  East  ? 
Begone  !  —  my  knave  !  —  belike  and  like  enow 
Some  old  head-blow  not  heeded  in  his  youth 
So  shook  his  wits  they  wander  in  his  prime  — 

700  Crazed !     How  the  villain  lifted  up  his  voice, 
Nor  shamed  to  bawl  himself  a  kitchen-knave ! 
Tut,  he  was  tame  and  meek  enow  with  me, 
Till  peacock'd  up  with  Lancelot's  noticing. 
Well  —  I  will  after  my  loud  knave,  and  learn 

705  Whether  he  know  me  for  his  master  yet. 
Out  of  the  smoke  he  came,  and  so  my  lance 
Hold,  by  God's  grace,  he  shall  into  the  mire  — 
Thence,  if  the  King  awaken  from  his  craze. 
Into  the  smoke  again." 

But  Lancelot  said : 
710 "  Kay,  wherefore  wilt  thou  go  against  the  King, 
For  that  did  never  he  whereon  ye  rail. 
But  ever  meekly  served  the  King  in  thee  ? 
695.  An,  if. 


r 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE,  39 

Abide  :  take  counsel ;  for  this  lad  is  great 
And  lusty,  and  knowing  both  of  lance  and  sword.'* 
ns ''  Tut,  tell  not  me,"  said  Kay,  "  ye  are  overfine 
To  mar  stout  knaves  with  foolish  courtesies  :  " 
Then  mounted,  on  thro'  silent  faces  rode 
Down  the  slope  city,  and  out  beyond  the  gate. 

But  by  the  field  of  tourney  lingering  yet 
720  Mutter'd  the  damsel :   ''  Wherefore  did  the  King 
Scorn  me  ?  for,  were  Sir  Lancelot  lackt,  at  least 
He  might  have  yielded  to  me  one  of  those 
Who  tilt  for  lady's  love  and  glory  here, 
Eather  than  —  O  sweet  heaven  !  O  fie  upon  him !  — - 
725  His  kitchen-knave." 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  drew  — 
And  there  were  none  but  few  goodlier  than  he  — 
Shining  in  arms,  "  Damsel,  the  quest  is  mine. 
Lead,  and  I  follow."     She  thereat,  as  one 
That  smells  a  foul-flesh'd  agaric  in  the  holt, 

730  And  deems  it  carrion  of  some  woodland  thing, 
Or  shrew,  or  weasel,  nipt  her  slender  nose 
With  petulant  thumb  and  finger,  shrilling,  "  Hence ! 
Avoid,  thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen-grease. 
And  look  who  comes  behind  ;  "  for  there  was  Kay. 

735 "  Knowest  thou  not  me  ?  thy  master  ?  I  am  Kay. 
We  lack  thee  by  the  hearth." 

And  Gareth  to  him, 
"  Master  no  more  !  too  well  I  know  thee,  ay  — 
The  most  ungentle  knight  in  Arthur's  hall." 

733.  Avoid,  here  used  in  its  obsolete  sense,  meaning  *^  ^o 
away." 


40  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

"  Have  at  thee  then,"  said  Kay :  they  shock'd,  and 
Kay 
740  Fell  shoulder-slipt,  and  Gareth  cried  again, 
"  Lead,  and  I  follow,"  and  fast  away  she  fled. 

But  after  sod  and  shingle  ceased  to  fly 
Behind  her,  and  the  heart  of  her  good  horse 
Was  nigh  to  burst  with  violence  of  the  beat, 
745  Perforce  she  stay'd,  and  overtaken  spoke : 

"  What  doest  thou,  scullion,  in  my  fellowship  ? 
Deem'st  thou  that  I  accept  thee  aught  the  more 
Or  love  thee  better,  that  by  some  device 
Full  cowardly,  or  by  mere  unhappiness, 
750  Thou  hast  overthrown  and  slain  thy  master — thou  I— » 
Dish-washer  and  broach-turner,  loon  !  —  to  me 
Thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen  as  before." 

"  Damsel,"  Sir  Gareth  answer'd  gently,  "  say 
Whate'er  ye  will,  but  whatsoe'er  ye  say, 
T55 1  leave  not  till  I  finish  this  fair  quest. 
Or  die  therefore." 

"  Ay,  wilt  thou  finish  it  ? 
Sweet  lord,  how  like  a  noble  knight  he  talks ! 
The  listening  rogue  hath  caught  the  manner  of  ito 
But,  knave,  anon  thou  shalt  be  met  with,  knave, 
760  And  then  by  such  a  one  that  thou  for  all 
The  kitchen  brewis  that  was  ever  supt 
Shalt  not  once  dare  to  look  him  in  the  face." 

"  I  shall  assay,"  said  Gareth  with  a  smile 
That  madden'd  her,  and  away  she  flash'd  again 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  41 

765  Down  the  long  avenues  of  a  boundless  wood, 
And  Gareth  following  was  again  beknaved : 

"  Sir  Kitchen-knave,  I  have  miss'd  the  only  way 
Where  Arthur's  men  are  set  along  the  wood ; 
The  wood  is  nigh  as  full'  of  thieves  as  leaves : 
770  If  both  be  slain,  I  am  rid  of  thee ;  but  yet, 
Sir  Scullion,  canst  thou  use  that  spit  of  thine  ? 
Fight,  an  thou  canst :  I  have  miss'd  the  only  way." 

So  till  the  dusk  that  follow'd  evensong 
Rode  on  the  two,  reviler  and  reviled  ; 

775  Then  after  one  long  slope  was  mounted,  saw, 
Bowl-shaped,  thro'  tops  of  many  thousand  pines 
A  gloomy-gladed  hollow  slowly  sink 
To  westward  —  in  the  deeps  whereof  a  mere. 
Hound  as  the  red  eye  of  an  eagle-owl, 

780  Under  the  half -dead  sunset  glared  ;  and  shouts 
Ascended,  and  there  brake  a  servingman 
Flying  from  out  of  the  black  wood,  and  crying, 
"  They  have  bound  my  lord  to  cast  him  in  the  mere." 
Then  Gareth,  "  Bound  am  I  to  right  the  wrong'd, 

785  But  straitlier  bound  am  I  to  bide  with  thee." 
And  when  the  damsel  spake  contemptuously, 
"  Lead,  and  I  follow,"  Gareth  cried  again, 
"  Follow,  I  lead  !  "  so  down  among  the  pines 
He  plunged ;  and  there,  black-shadow'd  nigh  the 
mere, 

790  And  mid-thigh-deep  in  bulrushes  and  reed, 
Saw  six  tall  men  haling  a  seventh  along, 
A  stone  about  his  neck  to  drown  him  in  it. 
Three  with  good  blows  he  quieted,  but  three 
Fled  thro'  the  pines ;  and  Gareth  loosed  the  stone 


L 


42  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE, 

795  From  off  his  neck,  then  in  the  mere  beside 
Tumbled  it ;  oilily  bubbled  up  the  mere. 
Last,  Gareth  loosed  his  bonds  and  on  free  feet 
Set  him,  a  stalwart  baron,  Arthur's  friend. 

"  Well  that  ye  came,  or  else  these  caitiff  rogues 
800  Had  wreak'd  themselves    on   me ;    good    cause   is 
theirs 
To  hate  me,  for  my  wont  hath  ever  been 
To  catch  my  thief,  and  then  like  vermin  here 
Drown  him,  and  with  a  stone  about  his  neck ; 
And  under  this  wan  water  many  of  them 
805  Lie  rotting,  but  at  night  let  go  the  stone, 
And  rise,  and  flickering  in  a  grimly  light 
Dance  on  the  mere.    Good  now,  ye  have  saved  a  life 
Worth  somewhat  as  the  cleanser  of  this  wood. 
And  fain  would  I  reward  thee  worshipfully. 
810  What  guerdon  will  ye  ?  " 

Gareth  sharply  spake : 
"  None !  for  the  deed's  sake  have  I  done  the  deed, 
In  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King. 
But  wilt  thou  yield  this  damsel  harborage  ?  " 

Whereat  the  baron  saying,  "  I  well  believe 
815  You  be  of  Arthur's  Table,"  a  light  laugh 
Broke  from  Lynette  :  "  Ay,  truly  of  a  truth, 
And  in  a  sort,  being  Arthur's  kitchen-knave  !  — 
But  deem  not  I  accept  thee  aught  the  more, 
Scullion,  for  running  sharply  with  thy  spit 

806.  Grimly,  an  archaic  adjectival  form,  found  in  Malory  and 
occasionally  in  later  writers.  "  She  had  many  grymly  throVes." 
Morte  Darthur,  viii. 


GARETB  AND  LYNETTE,  43 

820  Down  on  a  rout  of  craven  foresters. 

A  thresher  with  his  flail  had  scatter'd  them. 
Nay  —  for  thou  smellest  of  the  kitchen  still. 
But  an  this  lord  will  yield  us  harborage, 
Well." 

So  she  spake.     A  league  beyond  the  woodj 

825  All  in  a  full-fair  manor  and  a  rich, 

His  towers,  where  that  day  a  feast  had  been 
Held  in  high  hall,  and  many  a  viand  left, 
And  many  a  costly  cate,  received  the  three. 
And  there  they  placed  a  peacock  in  his  pride 

830  Before  the  damsel,  and  the  baron  set 
Gareth  beside  her,  but  at  once  she  rose. 

"  Meseems,  that  here  is  much  discourtesy, 
Setting  this  knave.  Lord  Baron,  at  my  side. 
Hear  me  —  this  morn  I  stood  in  Arthur's  hall, 

«35  And  pray'd  the  King  would  grant  me  Lancelot 
To  fight  the  brotherhood  of  Day  and  Night  — 
The  last  a  monster  unsubduable 
Of  any  save  of  him  for  whom  I  calFd  — 
Suddenly  bawls  this  frontless  kitchen-knave, 

«4o '  The  quest  is  mine  ;  thy  kitchen-knave  am  I, 
And  mighty  thro'  thy  meats  and  drinks  am  L* 
Then  Arthur  all  at  once  gone  mad  replies, 
'  Go  therefore,'  and  so  gives  the  quest  to  him  — 
Him  —  here  —  a  villain  fitter  to  stick  swine 

845  Than  ride  abroad  redressing  women's  wrong, 
Or  sit  beside  a  noble  gentlewoman." 

Then  half-ashamed  and  part-amazed,  the  lord 
Now  look'd  at  one  and  now  at  other,  left 


44  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

The  damsel  by  the  peacock  in  his  pride, 
850  And,  seating  Gareth  at  another  board, 
Sat  down  beside  him,  ate  and  then  began : 

"  Friend,  whether  thou  be  kitchen-knave,  or  not, 
Or  whether  it  be  the  maiden's  fantasy, 
And  whether  she  be  mad,  or  else  the  King, 

855  Or  both  or  neither,  or  thyself  be  mad, 

I  ask  not:  but  thou  strikest  a  strong  stroke, 
For  strong  thou  art  and  goodly  therewithal, 
And  saver  of  my  life  ;  and  therefore  now,  • 
For  here  be  mighty  men  to  joust  with,  weigh 

860  Whether  thou  wilt  not  with  thy  damsel  back 
To  crave  again  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  King. 
Thy  pardon ;  I  but  speak  for  thine  avail. 
The  saver  of  my  life." 

And  Gareth  said, 
"  Full  pardon,  but  I  follow  up  the  quest, 
865  Despite  of  Day  and  Night  and  Death  and  Hell." 

So  when,  next  morn,  the  lord  whose  life  he  saved 
Had,  some  brief   space,  convey'd   them   on   their 

way 
And  left  them  with  God-speed,  Sir  Gareth  spake, 
"  Lead,  and  I  follow."     Haughtily  she  replied : 

87e      "  I  fly  no  more  :  I  allow  thee  for  an  hour. 
Lion  and  stoat  have  isled  together,  knave. 
In  time  of  flood.     Nay,  furthermore,  methinks 
Some  ruth  is  mine  for  thee.     Back  wilt  thou,  fool? 
For  hard  by  here  is  one  will  overthrow 

875  And  slay  thee  ;  then  will  I  to  court  again, 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  45 

And  shame  the  King  for  only  yielding  me 
My  champion  from  the  ashes  of  his  hearth." 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer'd  courteously : 
"  Say  thou  thy  say,  and  I  will  do  my  deed. 
880  Allow  me  for  mine  hour,  and  thou  wilt  find 
My  fortunes  all  as  fair  as  hers  who  lay 
Among  the  ashes  and  wedded  the  King's  son." 

Then  to  the  shore  of  one  of  those  long  loops 
Where  thro'  the  serpent  river  coil'd,  they  came. 

885  Rough-thicketed   were    the  banks  and  steep ;   the 
stream 
Full,  narrow  ;  this  a  bridge  of  single  arc 
Took  at  a  leap ;  and  on  the  further  side 
Arose  a  silk  pavilion,  gay  with  gold 
In  streaks  and  rays,  and  all  Lent-lily  in  hue, 

890  Save  that  the  dome  was  purple,  and  above, 
Crimson,  a  slender  banneret  fluttering. 
And  therebefore  the  lawless  warrior  paced 
Unarm'd,  and  calling,  "Damsel,  is  this  he, 
The  champion  thou  hast  brought  from  Arthur's  hall  ? 

895  For  whom  we  let  thee  pass."     "  Nay,  nay,"  she  said, 
"  Sir  Morning-Star.     The  King  in  utter  scorn 
Of  thee  and  thy  much  folly  hath  sent  thee  here 
His  kitchen-knave  :  and  look  thou  to  thyself  : 
See  that  he  fall  not  on  thee  suddenly, 

900  And  slay  thee  unarm'd  ;  he  is  not  knight  but  knave* " 

Then  at  his  call,  "  O  daughters  of  the  Dawn, 
And  servants  of  the  Morning-Star,  approach, 
Arm  me,"  from  out  the  silken  curtain-folds 
Bare-footed  and  bare-headed  three  fair  girls 


46  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

305  In  gilt  and  rosy  raiment  came :  their  feet 
In  dewy  grasses  glisten'd ;  and  the  hair 
All  over  glanced  with  dewdrop  or  with  gem 
Like  sparkles  in.  the  stone  Avanturine. 
These  arm'd  him  in  blue  arms,  and  gave  a  shield 

910  Blue  also,  and  thereon  the  morning  star. 
And  Gareth  silent  gazed  upon  the  knight, 
Who  stood  a  moment,  ere  his  horse  was  brought. 
Glorying ;  and  in  the  streain  beneath  him  shone, 
Immingled  with  heaven's  azure  waveringly, 

315  The  gay  pavilion  and  the  naked  feet. 
His  arms,  the  rosy  raiment,  and  the  star. 

Then  she  that  watch'd  him  :  "  Wherefore  stare  ye 
so? 
Thou  shakest  in  thy  fear  :  there  yet  is  time  : 
Flee  down  the  valley  before  he  get  to  horse. 
320  Who  will  cry  shame  ?     Thou  art  not  knight   but 
knave." 

Said  Gareth  ;  "  Damsel,  whether  knave  or  knight, 
Far  liefer  had  I  fight  a  score  of  times 
Than  hear  thee  so  missay  me  and  revile. 
Fair  words  were  best  for  him  who  fights  for  thee  ; 
925  But  truly  foul  are  better,  for  they  send 

That  strength  of  anger  thro'  mine  arms,  I  know 
That  I  shall  overthrow  him." 

And  he  that  bore 
The  star,  when  mounted,  cried  from  o'er  the  bridge  ; 
"  A  kitchen-knave,  and  sent  in  scorn  of  me ! 
330  Such  fight  not  I,  but  answer  scorn  with  scorn. 
For  this  were  shame  to  do  him  further  wrong 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  47 

Than  set  him  on  his  feet,  and  take  his  horse 
And  arms,  and  so  return  him  to  the  King. 
Come,  therefore,  leave  thy  lady  lightly,  knavCo 
S35  Avoid :  for  it  beseemeth  not  a  knave 
To  ride  with  such  a  lady." 

"  Dog,  thou  liest  1 
I  spring  from  loftier  lineage  than  thine  own." 
He  spake ;  and  all  at  fiery  speed  the  two 
Shock'd  on  the  central  bridge,  and  either  spear    ' 

940  Bent  but  not  brake,  and  either  knight  at  once, 
Hurl'd  as  a  stone  from  out  of  a  catapult 
Beyond  his  horse's  crupper  and  the  bridge, 
Fell,  as  if  dead ;  but  quickly  rose  and  drew, 
And  Gareth  lash'd  so  fiercely  with  his  brand 

945  He  drave  his  enemy  backward  down  the  bridge, 
The  damsel  crying,  "  Well-stricken,  kitchen-knave ! " 
Till  Gareth's  shield  was  cloven  ;  but  one  stroke 
Laid  him  that  clove  it  grovelling  on  the  ground. 

Then  cried  the  fallen,  "  Take  not  my  life :  I  yield." 
950  And  Gareth,  "  So  this  damsel  ask  it  of  me 
Good —  I  accord  it  easily  as  a  grace." 
She  reddening,  "  Insolent  scullion  !  I  of  thee  ? 
I  bound  to  thee  for  any  favor  ask'd !  " 
"  Then  shall  he  die."     And  Gareth  there  unlaced 
955  His  helmet  as  to  slay  him,  but  she  shriek'd, 
"  Be  not  so  hardy,  scullion,  as  to  slay 
One  nobler  than  thyself."     "  Damsel,  thy  charge 
Is  an  abounding  pleasure  to  me.     Knight, 
Thy  life  is  thine  at  her  command.     Arise 
960  And  quickly  pass  to  Arthur's  hall,  and  say 

His  kitchen-knave  hath  sent  thee.     See  thou  crave 


\ 


48  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

His  pardon  for  thy  breaking  of  his  laws. 
Myself  when  I  return  will  plead  for  thee. 
Thy  shield  is  mine  —  farewell ;  and,  damsel,  thou, 
965  Lead,  and  I  follow." 

And  fast  away  she  fled ; 
Then  when  he  came  upon  her,  spake  :  "  Methought, 
Knave,  when  I  watch'd  thee  striking  on  the  bridge, 
The  savor  of  thy  kitchen  came  upon  me 
A  little  faintlier  :  but  the  wind  hath  changed  ; 

970 1  scent  it  twenty-fold."     And  then  she  sang, 
"  '  O  morning  star  '  —  not  that  tall  felon  there 
Whom  thou,  by  sorcery  or  unhappiness 
Or  some  device,  hast  foully  overthrown,  — 
'  O  morning  star  that  smilest  in  the  blue, 

p's  O  star,  my  morning  dream  hath  proven  true, 
Smile  sweetly,  thou  !  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me.' 

"  But  thou  begone,  take  counsel,  and  away, 
For  hard  by  here  is  one  that  guards  a  ford  — 
The  second  brother  in  their  fool's  parable  — 
980  Will  pay  thee  all  thy  wages,  and  to  boot. 

Care   not   for   shame :    thou   art   not   knight   but 
knave." 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer'd,  laughingly : 
"  Parables  ?  Hear  a  parable  of  the  knave. 
When  I  was  kitchen-knave  among  the  rest, 
985  Fierce  was  the  hearth,  and  one  of  my  co-mates 

971.  The  damsel  begins  to  relent.  Notice  the  arrangement 
of  rhymes  in  the  scattered  fragments  of  her  song.  This  form 
was  a  favorite  with  Tennyson  for  the  incidental  lyrics  in  bis 
blank  verse  poems.  Compare  Elaine's  Song  of  Love  and  Death; 
«  Lancelot  and  Elaine,"  1000-1011. 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  49 

Own'd  a  rough  dog,  to  whom  he  6ast  his  coat, 
'  Guard  it,'  and  there  was  none  to  meddle  with  it. 
And  such  a  coat  art  thou,  and  thee  the  King 
Gave  me  to  guard,  and  such  a  dog  am  I, 
990  To  worry,  and  not  to  flee — and  —  knight  or  knave  — 
The  knave  that  doth  thee  service  as  full  knight 
Is  all  as  good,  meseems,  as  any  knight 
Toward  thy  sister's  freeing." 

"  Ay,  Sir  Knave  ! 
Ay,  knave,  because  thou  strifeest  as  a  knight, 
995  Being  but  knave,  I  hate  thee  all  the  more." 

"  Fair  damsel,  you  should  worship  me  the  more, 
That,  being  but  knave,  I  throw  thine  enemies." 

"Ay,  ay,"  she  said    "but  thou  shalt  meet  thy 
match." 

So  when  they  touch'd  the  second  river-loop, 
1000  Huge  on  a  huge  red  horse,  and  all  in  mail 
Burnish'd  to  blinding,  shone  the  Noonday  Sun 
Beyond  a  raging  shallow.     As  if  the  flower 
That  blows  a  globe  of  after  arrowlets 
Ten-thousand-fold   had   grown,   flash'd   the   fierce 
shield, 
1005  All  sun  ;  and  Gareth's  eyes  had  flying  blots 
Before  them  v/hen  he  turn'd  from  watching  him. 
He  from  beyond  the  roaiing  shallow  roar'd, 
"  What  doest  thou,  brother,  in  my  marches  here?" 
And  she  athwart  the  shallow  shrill'd  again, 
1010  "  Here  is  a  kitchen-knave  from  Arthur's  hall 

1002.  The  flower  that  blows  a  globe  of  after  arrowleta, 
the  dandelion. 


60  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE, 

.    Hath  overthrown  thy  brother,  and  hath  his  arms." 
*'  Ugh  !  "  cried  the  Sun,  and,  vizoring  up  a  red 
And  cipher  face  of  rounded  foolishness, 
Push'd  horse  across  the  foamings  of  the  ford, 

1015  Whom  Gareth  met  mid-stream :  no  room  was  there 
For  lance  or  tourney-skill :  four  strokes  they  struck 
With  sword,  and  these  were  mighty ;  the  new  knight 
Had  fear  he  might  be  shamed ;  but  as  the  Sun 
Heaved  up  a  ponderous  arm  to  strike  the  fifth, 

1020  The  hoof  of  his  horse  slipt  in  the  stream,  the  stream 
Descended,  and  the  Sun  was  wash'd  away. 

Then  Gareth  laid  his  lance  athwart  the  ford  ; 

So  drew  him  home  ;  but  he  that  fought  no  more, 

As  being  all  bone-batter'd  on  the  rock, 
1025  Yielded ;  and  Gareth  sent  him  to  the  King. 

"  Myself  when  I  return  will  plead  for  thee. 

Lead,  and  I  follow."     Quietly  she  led. 

"  Hath  not  the  good  wind,  damsel,  changed  again  ?  *' 

"  Nay,  not  a  point ;  nor  art  thou  victor  here. 
1030  There  lies  a  ridge  of  slate  across  the  ford; 

His  horse  thereon  stumbled  —  ay,  for  I  saw  it. 

" '  O  sun  '  —  not  this  strong  fool  whom  thou,  Sir 
Knave, 
Hast  overthrown  thro'  mere  unhappiness  — 
'  O  sun,  that  wakenest  all  to  bliss  or  pain, 
1035  O  moon,  that  layest  all  to  sleep  again, 

Shine  sweetly  :  twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me.' 

"  What  knowest  thou  of  love-song  or  of  love  ? 
Nay,  nay,  God  wot,  so  thou  wert  nobly  born. 
Thou  hast  a  pleasant  presence.   Yea,  perchance,  — ■ 


( 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  61 

1040      "  '  O  dewy  flowers  that  open  to  the  sun, 
O  dewy  flowers  that  close  when  day  is  done, 
Blow  sweetly  :  twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me.' 

"  What  knowest  thou  of  flowers,  except,  belike, 
To  garnish  meats  with  ?  hath  not  our  good  King 
1045  Who  lent  me  thee,  the  flower  of  kitchendom, 
A  foolish  love  for  flowers  ?  what  stick  ye  round 
The  pasty  ?  wherewithal  deck  the  boar's  head  ? 
Flowers  ?  nay,  the  boar  hath  rosemaries  and  bay. 

"  '  O  birds  that  warble  to  the  morning  sky, 
1050  O  birds  that  warble  as  the  day  goes  by, 

Sing  sweetly :  twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me.' 

"  What  knowest  thou  of  birds,  lark,  mavis,  merle. 
Linnet?  what  dream  ye  when  they  utter  forth 
May-music  growing  with  the  growing  light, 
1055  Their  sweet  sun-worship  ?  these  be  for  the  snare  — 
So  runs  thy  fancy  —  these  be  for  the  spit, 
Larding  and  basting.     See  thou  have  not  now 
Larded  thy  last,  except  thou  turn  and  fly. 
There  stands  the  third  fool  of  their  allegory." 

1060      For  there  beyond  a  bridge  of  treble  bow. 
All  in  a  rose-red  from  the  west,  and  all 
Naked  it  seem'd,  and  glowing  in  the  broad 
Deep-dimpled  current  underneath,  the  knight 
That  named  himself  the  Star  of  Evening  stood. 

1065      And  Gareth,    "  Wherefore  waits   the   madman 
there 
Naked  in  open  dayshine  ?  "     "  Nay,"  she  cried, 


g2  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE 

"  Not  naked,  only  wrapt  in  harden'd  skins 
That  fit  him  like  his  own ;  and  so  ye  cleave 
His  armor  off  him,  these  will  turn  the  blade." 

1070      Then  the  third  brother  shouted  o'er  the  bridge, 
"  O  brother-star,  why  shine  ye  here  so  low  ? 
Thy  ward  is  higher  up  :  but  have  ye  slain 
The  damsel's  champion  ?  "  and  the  damsel  cried  : 

"  No  star  of  thine,  but  shot  from  Arthur's  heaven 
1075  With  all  disaster  unto  thine  and  thee  ! 

For  both  thy  younger  brethren  have  gone  down 
Before  this  youth  ;  and  so  wilt  thou,  Sir  Star  ; 
Art  thou  not  old?" 

"  Old,  damsel,  old  and  hard, 
Old,  with  the  might  and  breath  of  twenty  boys." 
1080  Said  Gareth,  "  Old,  and  over-bold  in  brag  ! 

But  that  same  strength  which  threw  the  Morning 

Star 
Can  throw  the  Evening." 

Then  that  other  blew 
A  hard  and  deadly  note  upon  the  horn. 
"  Approach  and  arm  me  !  "     With  slow  steps  from 
out 

1065  An  old  storm-beaten,  russet,  many-stain'd 
Pavilion,  forth  a  grizzled  damsel  came. 
And  arm'd  him  in  old  arms,  and  brought  a  helm 
With  but  a  drying  evergreen  for  crest. 
And  gave  a  shield  whereon  the  star  of  even 

1090  Half-tarnish'd  and  half -bright,  his  emblem,  shone. 
But  when  it  glitter'd  o'er  the  saddle-bow, 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  ,     53 

They  madly  hurl'd  together  on  the  bridge  ; 
And  Gareth  overthrew  him,  lighted,  drew, 
There  met  him  drawn,  and  overthrew  him  again, 

1095  But  up  like  fire  he  started :  and  as  oft 

As  Gareth  brought  him  grovelling  on  his  knees, 
So  many  a  time  he  vaulted  up  again ; 
Till  Gareth  panted  hard,  and  his  great  heart, 
Foredooming  all  his  trouble  was  in  vain, 

noo  Labor'd  within  him,  for  he  seem'd  as  one 
That  all  in  later,  sadder  age  begins 
To  war  against  ill  uses  of  a  life. 
But  these  from  all  his  life  arise,  and  cry, 
"  Thou  hast  made  us  lords,  and  canst  not  put  us 
down ! " 

U05  He  half  despairs  ;  so  Gareth  seem'd  to  strike 
Vainly,  the  damsel  clamoring  all  the  while, 
"  Well  done,  knave-knight,  well  stricken,  O  good 

knight-knave  — 
O  knave,  as  noble  as  any  of  all  the  knights  — 
Shame  me  not,  shame  me  .not.    I  have  prophesied  — 

\iio  Strike,  thou  art  worthy  of  the  Table  Round  — 
His  arms  are  old,  he  trusts  the  harden'd  skin  — 
Strike  —  strike  —  the   wind   will    never   chanofe 


again. 


5? 


And  Gareth  hearing  ever  stronglier  smote. 
And  hew'd  great  pieces  of  his  armor  off  him, 

1115  But  lash'd  in  vain  against  the  harden'd  skin, 
And  could  not  wholly  bring  him  under,  more 
Than  loud  Southwesterns,  rolling  ridge  on  ridge, 
The  buoy  that  rides  at  sea,  and  dips  and  springs 
For  ever ;  till  at  length  Sir  Gareth's  brand 

U20  Clash'd  his,  and  brake  it  utterly  to  the  hilt. 
"  I  have  thee  now; "  but  forth  that  other  sprang, 


64  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

And,  all  unkniglitlike,  writhed  his  wiry  arms 
Around  him,  till  he  felt,  despite  his  mail, 
Strangled,  but  straining  even  his  uttermost 
1125  Cast,  and  so  hurFd  him  headlong  o'er  the  bridge 
Down  to  the  river,  sink  or  swim,  and  cried, 
"  Lead,  and  I  follow." 

But  the  damsel  said : 
"  I  lead  no  longer  ;  ride  thou  at  my  side ; 
Thou  art  the  kingliest  of  all  kitchen-knaves. 

1130      "  '  O  trefoil,  sparkling  on  the  rainy  plain, 
O  rainbow  with  three  colors  after  rain. 
Shine  sweetly  :  thrice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me.' 

"  Sir,  —  and,  good   faith,  I  fain  had  added  — 
Knight, 
But  that  I  heard  thee  call  thyself  a  knave,  — 

U35  Shamed  am  I  that  I  so  rebuked,  reviled, 

Missaid  thee  ;  noble  I  am  ;  and  thought  the  King 
Scorn'd  me  and  mine  ;  and  now  thy  pardon,  friend^ 
For  thou  hast  ever  answer'd  courteously. 
And  wholly  bold  thou  art,  and  meek  withal 

1140  As  any  of  Arthur's  best,  but,  being  knave, 
Hast  mazed  my  wit :  I  marvel  what  thou  art." 

"  Damsel,"  he  said,  "  you  be  not  all  to  blame, 
Saving  that  you  mistrusted  our  good  King 
Would  handle  scorn,  or  yield  you,  asking,  one 
U45  Not  fit  to  cope  your  quest.     You  said  your  say ; 
Mine  answer  was  my  deed.     Good  sooth  !  I  hold 
He  scarce  is  knight,  yea  but  half-man,  nor  meet 
To  fight  for  gentle  damsel,  he,  who  lets 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  66 

His  heart  be  stirr'd  with  any  foolish  heat 
U50  At  any  gentle  damsel's  waywardness. 

Shamed  ?  care  not !  thy  foul  sayings  fought  for  me : 
And  seeing  now  thy  words  are  fair,  methinks 
There  rides  no  knight,  not  Lancelot,  his  great  self, 
Hath  force  to  quell  me." 

Nigh  upon  that  hour 
1155  When  the  lone  hern  forgets  his  melancholy, 
Lets  down  his  other  leg,  and  stretching  dreams 
Of  goodly  supper  in  the  distant  pool. 
Then  turn'd  the  noble  damsel  smiling  at  him, 
And  told  him  of  a  cavern  hard  at  hand, 
U60  Where  bread  and  baken  meats  and  good  red  wine 
Of  Southland,  which  the  Lady  Lyonors 
Had  sent  her  coming  champion,  waited  him. 

Anon  they  past  a  narrow  comb  wherein 
Were  slabs  of  rock  with  figures,  knights  on  horse 

1165  Sculptured,  and  deckt  in  slowly- waning  hues. 
"  Sir  Knave,  my  knight,  a  hermit  once  was  here. 
Whose  holy  hand  hath  fashion'd  on  the  rock 
The  war  of  Time  against  the  soul  of  man. 
And  yon  four  fools  have  suck'd  their  allegory 

1170  From  these  damp  walls,  and  taken  but  the  form. 
Know  ye  not  these  ?  "  and  Gareth  lookt  and  read  — ' 
In  letters  like  to  those  the  vexillary 
Hath  left  crag-carven  o'er  the  streaming  Gelt  — 
"  Phosphorus,"    then     "  Meridies,"  —  "  Hes- 
perus "  — 

1175  "  Nox  "  —  "  Mors,"  beneath  five  figures,  armed 
men, 

1172.  A  Roman  vexillary,  or  standard  bearer,  carved  an  in- 
scription on  a  cliff  by  the  river  Gelt  in  Cumberland. 


56  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

Slab  after  slab,  their  faces  forward  all, 
And  running  down  the  Soul,  a  shape  that  fled 
With  broken  wings,  torn  raiment,  and  loose  hair^ 
For  help  and  shelter  to  the  hermit's  cave. 
nso  "  Follow  the  faces,  and  we  find  it.     Look, 
Who  comes  behind  ?  '* 

For  one  —  delay'd  at  first 
Thro'  helping  back  the  dislocated  Kay 
To  Caraelot,  then  by  what  thereafter  chanced. 
The  damsel's  headlong  error  thro'  the  wood  — 

«85  Sir  Lancelot,  having  swum  the  river-loops  — 
His  blue  shield-lions  cover'd  —  softly  drew 
Behind  the  twain,  and  when  he  saw  the  star 
Gleam,  on  Sir  Gareth's  turning  to  him,  cried, 
"  Stay,  felon  knight,  I  avenge  me  for  my  friend." 

U90  And  Gareth  crying  prick'd  against  the  cry ; 

But  when  they  closed  —  in  a  moment  —  at  one  touch 
Of  that  skill'd  spear,  the  wonder  of  the  world  — 
Went  sliding  down  so  easily,  and  fell. 
That  when  he  found  the  grass  within  his  hands 

ii95  He  laugh'd  ;  the  laughter  jarr'd  upon  Lynette : 
Harshly  she  ask'd  him,  "  Shamed  and  overthrown. 
And  tumbled  back  into  the  kitchen-knave, 
Why  laugh  ye  ?  that  ye  blew  your  boast  in  vain  ?  " 
"  Nay,  noble  damsel,  but  that  I,  the  son 

1200  Of  old  King  Lot  and  good  Queen  Bellicent, 
And  victor  of  the  bridges  and  the  ford. 
And  knight  of  Arthur,  here  lie  thrown  by  whom 
I  know  not,  all  thro'  mere  unhappiness  — 
Device  and  sorcery  and  unhappiness  — 

1206  Out,  sword  ;  we  are  thrown  !  "     And  Lancelot  an« 
swer'd:  "Prince, 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  67 

O  Gareth  —  thro'  the  mere  unhappiness 
Of  one  who  came  to  help  thee,  not  to  harm, 
Lancelot,  and  all  as  glad  to  find  thee  whole 
As  on  the  day  when  Arthur  knighted  him." 

1210      Then  Gareth  :  "  Thou  —  Lancelot !  —  thine  the 

hand 
That  threw  me  ?   An  some  chance  to  mar  the  boast 
Thy  brethren    of   thee   make  —  which   could   not 

chance  — 
Had  sent  thee  down  before  a  lesser  spear, 
Shamed  had  I  been,  and  sad —  O  Lancelot — thou! " 

1215      Whereat  the  maiden,  petulant :  "  Lancelot, 
Why  came  ye  not,  when  call'd  ?  and  wherefore  now 
Come  ye,  not  call'd  ?     I  gloried  in  my  knave. 
Who  beinof  still  rebuked  would  answer  still 
Courteous  as  any  knight  —  but  now,  if  knight, 

1220  The  marvel  dies,  and  leaves  me  fool'd  and  trick'd. 
And  only  wondering  wherefore  play'd  upon ; 
And  doubtful  whether  I  and  mine  be  scorn'd. 
Where  should  be  truth  if  not  in  Arthur's  hall, 
In  Arthur's  presence  ?     Knight,  knave,  prince  and 
fool, 

1225 1  hate  thee  and  forever." 

And  Lancelot  said : 
"  Blessed  be  thou.  Sir  Gareth  !  knight  art  thou 
To  the  King's  best  wish.     O  damsel,  be  you  wise, 
To  call  him  shamed  who  is  but  overthrown  ? 
Thrown  have  I  been,  nor  once,  but  many  a  time. 
1230  Victor  from  vanquish'd  issues  at  the  last. 
And  overthrower  from  being  overthrown. 


58  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

With  sword  we  have  not  striven ;  and  thy  good 

horse 
And  thou  are  weary ;  yet  not  less  I  felt 
Thy  manhood  thro'  that  wearied  lance  of  thine. 
1235  Well  hast  thou  done  ;  for  all  the  stream  is  freed, 
And  thou  hast  wreak'd  his  justice  on  his  foes, 
And  when  reviled  hast  answer'd  graciously, 
And   makest   merry   when   overthrown.      Prince, 

knight. 
Hail,  knight  and  prince,  and  of  our  Table  Kound !  " 

1240      And  then  when  turning  to  Lynette  he  told 
The  tale  of  Gareth,  petulantly  she  said : 
"  Ay,  well  —  ay,  well  —  for  worse  than  being  fool'd 
Of  others,  is  to  fool  one's  self.     A  cave, 
Sir  Lancelot,  is  hard  by,  with  meats  and  drinks 

1245  And  forage  for  the  horse,  and  flint  for  fire. 
But  all  about  it  flies  a  honeysuckle. 
Seek,  till  we  find."     And  when  they  sought  and 

found. 
Sir  Gareth  drank  and  ate,  and  all  his  life 
Past  into  sleep  ;  on  whom  the  maiden  gazed : 

1250  "  Sound  sleep  be  thine !  sound  cause  to  sleep  hast 
thou. 
Wake  lusty  !     Seem  I  not  as  tender  to  him 
As  any  mother  ?     Ay,  but  such  a  one 
As  all  day  long  hath  rated  at  her  child, 
And  vext  his  day,  but  blesses  him  asleep  — 

1255  Good  lord,  how  sweetly  smells  the  honeysuckle 
In  the  hush'd  night,  as  if  the  world  were  one 
Of  utter  peace,  and  love,  and  gentleness ! 
O  Lancelot,  Lancelot,"  — and  she  clapt  her  hands — 
"  Full  merry  am  I  to  find  my  goodly  knave 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  69 

1260  Is  knight  and  noble.     See  now,  sworn  have  I, 
Else  yon  black  felon  had  not  let  me  pass, 
To  bring  thee  back  to  do  the  battle  with  him. 
Thus  an  thou  goest,  he  will  fight  thee  first ; 
Who  doubts  thee  victor  ?  so  will  m}^  knight-knave 

1265  Miss  the  full  flower  of  this  accomplishment." 

Said  Lancelot :  "  Peradventure  he  you  name 
May  know  my  shield.     Let  Gareth,  an  he  will, 
Change  his  for  mine,  and  take  my  charger,  fresh, 
Not  to  be  spurr'd,  loving  the  battle  as  well 
1270  As  he  that  rides  him."     "  Lancelot-like,"  she  said, 
"  Courteous  in  this,  Lord  Lancelot,  as  in  all." 

And   Gareth,   wakening,   fiercely   clutch'd    the 
shield : 
"  Ramp,  ye  lance-splintering  lions,  on  whom  all 

spears 
Are  rotten  sticks !  ye  seem  agape  to  roar  ! 
1275  Yea,  ramp  and  roar  at  leaving  of  your  lord !  — 
Care  not,  good  beasts,  so  well  I  care  for  you. 
O  noble  Lancelot,  from  my  hold  on  these 
Streams  virtue  —  fire  —  thro'    one   that   will   not 

shame 
Even  the  shadow  of  Lancelot  under  shield. 
1280  Hence  :  let  us  go." 

Silent  the  silent  field 
They  traversed.    Arthur's  Harp  tho'  summer-wan, 

1281.  Arthur's  harp,  some  commentators  hold  this  to  be  a 
constellation  formed  by  the  Pole  Star,  Arcturus,  and  another  ; 
but  from  a  reference  in  "The  Last  Tournament,"  to  *'  the  star 
we  call  the  harp  of  Arthur  up  in  heaven,"  it  seems  to  b«  but  a 
single  star. 


60  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

In  counter  motion  to  the  clouds,  allured 

The  glance  of  Gareth  dreaming  on  his  liege. 

A  star  shot :  ''  Lo,"  said  Gareth,  "  the  foe  falls  !  " 

1285  An  owl  whoopt :  "  Hark  the  victor  pealing  there  !  '^ 
Suddenly  she  that  rode  upon  his  left 
Clung  to  the  shield  that  Lancelot  lent  him,  crying: 
"Yield,  yield  him  this  again ;  'tis  he  must  fight: 
I  curse  the  tongue  that  all  thro'  yesterday 

1290  Reviled  thee,  and  hath  wrought  o;i  Lancelot  now 
To  lend  thee  horse  and  shield:  wonders  ye  have 

done ; 
Miracles  ye  cannot :  here  is  glory  enow 
In  having  flun^-  the  three  :  I  see  thee  maim'd, 
Mangled  :  I  swear  thou  canst  not  fling  the  fourth." 

1295      "And  wherefore,  damsel?  tell  me  all  ye  know. 
You  cannot  scare  me ;  nor  rough  face,  or  voice, 
Brute  bulk  of  limb,  or  boundless  savagery 
Appal  me  from  the  quest." 

"  Nay,  prince,"  she  cried, 
"  God  wot,  I  never  look'd  upon  the  face, 

S300  Seeing  he  never  rides  abroad  by  day  ; 

But  watch'd  him  have  I  like  a  phantom  pass 
Chilling  the  night :  nor  have  I  heard  the  voice. 
Always  he  made  his  mouthpiece  of  a  page 
Who  came  and  went,  and  still  reported  him 

1305  As  closing  in  himself  the  strength  of  ten. 
And  when  his  anger  tare  him,  massacring 
Man,  woman,  lad,  and  girl  —  yea,  the  soft  babe  I 
Some  hold  that  he  hath  swallow'd  infant  flesh. 
Monster !  O  prince,  I  went  for  Lancelot  first, 

1310  The  quest  is  Lancelot's :  give  him  back  the  shield." 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  61 

Said  Gareth  laughing,  "  An  he  fight  for  this, 
Belike  he  wins  it  as  the  better  man : 
Thus  —  and  not  else  !  " 

But  Lancelot  on  him  urged 
All  the  devisings  of  their  chivalry 
izib  When  one  might  meet  a  mightier  than  himself ; 
How  best  to  manage  horse,  lance,  sword,  and  shield, 
And  so  fill  up  the  gap  where  force  might  fail 
With  skill  and  fineness.     Instant  were  his  words. 

Then  Gareth :  "  Here  be  rules.    I  know  but  one — 
1320  To  dash  against  mine  enemy  and  to  win. 
Yet  have  I  watch'd  thee  victor  in  the  joust, 
And  seen  thy  way."    "  Heaven  help  thee !  '*  sigh'd 
Lynette. 

Then  for  a  space,  and  under  cloud  that  grew 
To  thunder-gloom  palling  all  stars,  they  rode 

X325  In  converse  till  she  made  her  palfrey  halt. 
Lifted  an  arm,  and  softly  whisper'd,  ''  There." 
And  all  the  three  were  silent  seeing,  pitch'd 
Beside  the  Castle  Perilous  on  flat  field, 
A  huge  pavilion  like  a  mountain  peak 

1330  Sunder  the  glooming  crimson  on  the  marge. 
Black,  with  black  banner,  and  a  long  black  horn 
Beside  it  hanging ;  which  Sir  Gareth  graspt. 
And  so,  before  the  two  could  hinder  him. 
Sent  all  his  heart  and  breath  thro'  all  the  horn. 

1335  Echo'd  the  walls  ;  a  light  twinkled  ;  anon 

Came  lights  and  lights,  and  once  again  he  blew  i 
Whereon  were  hollow  tramplings  up  and  down 
And  muffled  voices  heard,  and  shadows  past ; 


62  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

Till  high  above  him,  circled  with  her  maids, 
i34o  The  Lady  Lyonors  at  a  window  stood, 
Beautiful  among  lights,  and  waving  to  him 
White  hands  and  courtesy ;  but  when  the  prince 
Three   times    had   blown  —  after   long   hush  —  at 

last  — 
The  huge  pavilion  slowly  yielded  up, 
1345  Thro'    those    black    foldings,    that   which   housed 
therein. 
High  on  a  night-black  horse,  in  night-black  arms, 
With  white  breast-bone,  and  barren  ribs  of  Death, 
And  crown'd  with   fleshless  laughter  —  some  ten 

steps  — 
In  the  half-light  —  thro'  the  dim  dawn  —  advanced 
1350  The  monster,  and  then  paused,  and  spake  no  word. 

But  Gareth  spake  and  all  indignantly : 
"  Fool,  for  thou  hast,  men  say,  the  strength  of  ten, 
Canst  thou  not  trust  the  limbs  thy  God  hath  given, 
But  must,  to  make  the  terror  of  thee  more, 

1355  Trick  thyself  out  in  ghastly  imageries 

Of  that  which  Life  hath  done  with,  and  the  clod. 
Less  dull  than  thou,  will  hide  with  mantling  flowers 
As  if  for  pity  ?  "     But  he  spake  no  word  ; 
Which  set  the  horror  higher  :  a  maiden  swoon'd ; 

1360  The  Lady  Lyonors  wrung  her  hands  and  wept. 
As  doom'd  to  be  the  bride  of  Night  and  Death ; 
Sir  Gareth's  head  prickled  beneath  his  helm  ; 
And  even  Sir  Lancelot  thro'  his  warm  blood  felt 
Ice  strike,  and  all  that  mark'd  him.  were  aghast. 

:i365      At  once  Sir  Lancelot's  charger  fiercely  neigh'd, 
And  Death's  dark  war-horse  bounded  forward  with 
him. 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.  63 

Then  those  that  did  not  blink  the  terror  saw 
That  Death  was  cast  to  ground,  and  slowly  rose. 
But  with  one  stroke  Sir  Gareth  split  the  skull. 

1370  Half  fell  to  right  and  half  to  left  and  lay. 
Then  with  a  stronger  buffet  he  clove  the  helm 
As  throughly  as  the  skull ;  and  out  from  this 
Issued  the  bright  face  of  a  blooming  boy 
Fresh  as  a  flower  new-born,  and  crying,  "  Knight, 

1375  Slay  me  not :  my  three  brethren  bade  me  do  it, 
To  make  a  horror  all  about  the  house. 
And  stay  the  world  from  Lady  Lyonors ; 
They  never  dream'd  the  passes  would  be  past." 
Answer'd  Sir  Gareth  graciously  to  one 

1380  Not  many  a  moon  his  younger,  "  My  fair  child, 
What  madness  made  thee  challenge  the  chief  knight 
Of  Arthur's  hall  ?  "     "  Fair  Sir,  they  bade  me  do  it. 
They  hate    the    King   and   Lancelot,   the  King's 

friend ; 
They  hoped  to  slay  him  somewhere  on  the  stream, 

1385  They  never  dream'd  the  passes  could  be  past." 

Then  sprang  the  happier  day  from  underground ; 
And  Lady  Lyonors  and  her  house,  with  dance 
And  revel  and  song,  made  merry  over  Death, 
As  being  after  all  their  foolish  fears 
1390  And  horrors  only  proven  a  blooming  boy. 

So  large  mirth  lived,  and  Gareth  won  the  quest. 

And  he  that  told  the  tale  in  older  times 
Says  that  Sir  Gareth  wedded  Lyonors, 
But  he  that  told  it  later  says  Lynette. 

1392-1394.  He  that  told  the  tale  in  older  times,  Malory; 
he  that  told  it  later,  Tennyson. 


L 


64  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

Elaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  lovable, 
Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat, 
High  in  her  chamber  up  a  tower  to  the  east 
Guar4ed  the  sacred  shield  of  Lancelot; 

5  Which  first  she  placed  where  morning's  earliest  ray 
Might  strike  it,  and  awake  her  with  the  gleam ; 
Then  fearing  rust  or  soilure  fashion'd  for  it 
A  case  of  silk,  and  braided  thereupon 
All  the  devices  blazon'd  on  the  shield 

10  In  their  own  tinct,  and  added,  of  her  wit, 
A  border  fantasy  of  branch  and  flower, 
And  yellow-throated  nestling  in  the  nest. 
Nor  rested  thus  content,  but  day  by  day. 
Leaving  her  household  and  good  father,  climb'd 

15  That  eastern  tower,  and  entering  barr'd  her  door, 
Stript  off  the  case,  and  read  the  naked  shield, 
Now  guess'd  a  hidden  meaning  in  his  arms, 

Lancelot  and  Elaine,  under  the  title  of  "Elaine,"  first 
appeared  in  the  volume  of  1859.  The  story  is  told  at  consider- 
able length  by  Malory,  and  Tennyson  has  followed  his  narrative 
perhaps  more  closely  than  in  any  other  of  the  "  Idylls."  Stand- 
ing just  beyond  the  middle  of  the  series,  as  finally  arranged, 
it  strikes  the  first  clear  note  of  the  corruption  which  was  to 
work  the  ruin  of  King  Arthur  and  his  Round  Table  —  the  guilty 
love  of  Lancelot  and  the  Queen.  We  repeat  our  suggestion  of 
the  introductory  sketch  that  the  student  should  turn  to  Malory 
(Book  xviii.  chap.  8-20)  for  an  example  of  the  manner  in  which 
Tennyson  and  Malory  throw  light  upon  each  other. 

2.  The  lily  maid  ;  "  This  old  baron  [Sir  Bernard  of  Astolat] 
had  a  daughter  that  time  that  was  called  that  time  the  fair 
maid  of  Astolat ;  .  .  .  and  her  name  was  Elaine  le  Blank " 
{blanche^  white). 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE.  65 

Now  made  a  pretty  history  to  herself 
Of  every  dint  a  sword  had  beaten  in  it, 

20  And  every  scratch  a  lance  had  made  upon  it, 
Conjecturing  when  and  where :  this  cut  is  fresh ; 
That  ten  years  back  ;  this  dealt  him  at  Caerlyle  •, 
That  at  Caerleon ;  this  at  Camelot : 
And  ah  God's  mercy,  what  a  stroke  was  there ! 

25  And  here  a  thrust  that  might  have  kill'd,  but  God 
Broke  the  strong  lance,  and  roll'd  his  enemy  down. 
And  saved  him :  so  she  lived  in  fantasy. 

How  came  the  lily  maid  by  that  good  shield 
Of  Lancelot,  she  that  knew  not  ev'n  his  name  ? 
so  He  left  it  with  her,  when  he  rode  to  tilt 
For  the  great  diamond  in  the  diamond  jousts. 
Which  Arthur  had  ordain'd,  and  by  that  name 
Had  named  them,  since  a  diamond  was  the  prize. 

For-  Arthur,  long  before  they  crown'd  him  King, 
35  Roving  the  trackless  realms  of  Lyonnesse, 

28.  A  passage  in  Malory  tells  how  she  came  by  the  shield,  aud 
shows  how  Teunysou  adapted  the  tone  of  his  original. 

"Then  she  told  him  as  ye  have  heard  tofore,  and  how  her 
father  betook  him  her  bpother  to  do  him  service,  and  how  her 
father  lent  him  her  brother  Sir  Tirre's  shield,  —  And  here  with 
me  he  left  his  own  shield.  For  what  cause  did  he  so  ?  said  Sir 
Gawaine.  For  this  cause,  said  the  damsel,  for  his  shield  was  too 
well  known  among  many  noble  knights.  Ah,  fair  damsel,  said 
Sir  Gawaine,  please  it  you  let  me  have  a  sight  of  that  shield. 
Sir,  said  she,  it  is  in  my  chapiber  covered  with  a  case,  and  if 
ye  will  come  with,  me,  ye  shall  see  it." 

35.  Lyonnesse,  a  portion  of  southwestern  England,  of  which 
Sir  Walter  Besant's  novel,  "  Armorel  of  Lyonesse,"  has  helped  to 
revive  the  memory. 

35-55.  For  a  vivid  picture  of  this  scene,  and  others  in  the 
poem,  the  student  would  do  well  to  turn  to  Dora's  illustrations  of 
•«  Elaine." 


66  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE, 

Had  found  a  glen,  gray  boulder  and  black  tarn. 
A  horror  lived  about  the  tarn,  and  clave 
Like  its  own  mists  to  all  the  mountain  side: 
For  here  two  brothers,  one  a  king,  had  met 

40  And  fought  together ;  but  their  names  were  lost ; 
And  each  had  slain  his  brother  at  a  blow ; 
And  down  they  fell  and  made  the  glen  abhorr'd : 
And  there  they  lay  till  all  their  bones  were  bleach'd, 
And  lichen'd  into  color  with  the  crags : 

45  And  he,  that  once  was  king,  had  on  a  crown 
Of  diamonds,  one  in  front  and  four  aside. 
And  Arthur  came,  and  laboring  up  the  pass, 
All  in  a  misty  moonshine,  unawares 
Had  trodden  that  crown'd  skeleton,  and  the  skull 

60  Brake  from  the  nape,  and  from  the  skull  the  crown 
RolFd  into  light,  and  turning  on  its  rims 
Fled  like  a  glittering  rivulet  to  the  tarn : 
And  down  the  shingly  scaur  he  plunged,  and  caught, 
And  set  it  qia  his  head,  and  in  his  heart 

65  Heard  murmurs, ''  Lo,  thou  likewise  shalt  be  King." 

Thereafter,  when  a  King,  he  had  the  gems 
Pluck'd  from  the  crown,  and  show'd  them  to  his 

knights. 
Saying,  "  These  jewels,  whereupon  I  chanced 
Divinely,  are  the  kingdom's,  not  the  King's  — 
eo  For  public  use  :  henceforward  let  there  be, 
Once  every  year,  a  joust  for  one  of  these : 
For  so  by  nine  years'  proof  we  needs  must  learn 
Which  is  our  mightiest,  and  ourselves  shall  grow 
In  use  of  arms  and  manhood,  till  we  drive 
85  The  heathen,  who,  some  say,  shall  rule  the  land 
Hereafter,  which  God  hinder."     Thus  he  spoke  ; 
And  eight  years  past,  eight  jousts  had  been,  and 
still 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE,  67 

Had  Lancelot  won  the  diamond  of  the  year, 
With  purpose  to  present  them  to  the  Queen, 
70  When  all  were  won  ;  but  meaning  all  at  once 
To  snare  her  royal  fancy  with  a  boon 
Worth  half  her  realm,  had  never  spoken  word. 

Now  for  the  central  diamond  and  the  last 
And  largest,  Arthur,  holding  then  his  court 

75  Hard  on  the  river  nigh  the  place  which  now 
Is  this  world's  hugest,  let  proclaim  a  joust 
At  Camelot,  and  when  the  time  drew  nigh 
Spake  (for  she  had  been  sick)  to  Guinevere, 
"  Are  you  so  sick,  my  Queen,  you  cannot  move 

80  To  these  fair  jousts ?  "     "  Yea,  lord,"  she  said,  "ye 
know  it." 
"  Then  will  ye  miss,"  he  answer'd,  "  the  great  deeds 
Of  Lancelot,  and  his  prowess  in  the  lists, 
A  sight  ye  love  to  look  on."     And  the  Queen 
Lifted  her  eyes,  and  they  dwelt  languidly 

85  On  Lancelot,  where  he  stood  beside  the  King. 
He  thinking  that  he  read  her  meaning  there, 
"  Stay  with  me,  I  am  sick ;  my  love  is  more 
Than  many  diamonds,"  yielded  ;  and  a  heart 
Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen 

90  (However  much  he  yearn'd  to  make  complete 
The  tale  of  diamonds  for  his  destined  boon) 
Urged  him  to  speak  against  the  truth,  and  say, 
"  Sir  King,  mine  ancient  wound  is  hardly  whole, 
And  lets  me  from  the  saddle ; "  and  the  King 

75.  The  place,  obviously  London. 

91.  The  tale,  the  full  number,  as  in  Exodus,  v.  8  :  "  And  the 
tale  of  bricks,  which  they  did  make  heretofore,  ye  shall  lay  upon 
them." 

94.  Lets  me  =  heq)s,  prevents  me  ;  a  common,  obsolete  use  of 
let,  as  in  the  Prayer  Book  collect  :  "  sore  let  and  hindered  in 
running  the  race." 


68  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

95  Glanced  first  at  him,  then  her,  and  went  his  way. 
No  sooner  gone  than  suddenly  she  began : 

"  To  blame,  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot,  much  to  blame ! 
Why  go  ye  not  to  these  fair  jousts  ?  the  knights 
Are  half  of  them  our  enemies,  and  the  crowd 

100  Will  murmur,  *  Lo  the  shameless  ones,  who  take 
Their  pastime  now  the  trustful  King  is  gone ! '  " 
Then  Lancelot  vext  at  having  lied  in  vain : 
"  Are  ye  so  wise  ?  ye  were  not  once  so  wise, 
My  Queen,  that  summer,  when  ye  loved  me  first. 

105  Then  of  the  crowd  ye  took  no  more  account 
Than  of  the  myriad  cricket  of  the  mead, 
When  its  own  voice  clings  to  each  blade  of  grass, 
And  every  voice  is  nothing.     As  to  knights, 
Them  surely  can  I  silence  with  all  ease. 

uo  But  now  my  loyal  worship  is  allow'd 

Of  all  men  :  many  a  bard,  without  oifence, 
Has  link'd  our  names  together  in  his  lay, 
Lancelot,  the  flower  of  bravery,  Guinevere, 
The  pearl  of  beauty  :  and  our  knights  at  feast 

U5  Have  pledged  us  in  this  union,  while  the  King 
Would  listen  smiling.     How  then  ?  is  there  more  ? 
Has  Arthur  spoken  aught  ?  or  would  yourseK, 
Now  weary  of  my  service  and  devoir. 
Henceforth  be  truer  to  your  faultless  lord  ?  " 

120      She  broke  into  a  little  scornful  laugh : 

"  Arthur,  my  lord,  Arthur,  the  faultless  King, 

118.  Devoir,  duty.     In  common  speech  it  has  become  the 
word  on  which  Hood  punned  in  "  Faithless  Nelly  Gray  : "  — 

*'  So  he  went  up  to  pay  his  devours, 
When  he  devoured  his  pay ! " 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE.  69 

That  passionate  perfection,  my  good  lord  — 
But  who  can  gaze  upon  the  Sun  in  heaven  ? 
He  never  spake  word  of  reproach  to  me, 

125  He  never  had  a  glimpse  of  mine  untruth, 
He  cares  not  for  me :  only  here  to-day 
There  gleam'd  a  vague  suspicion  in  his  eyes : 
Some  meddling  rogue  has  tamper'd  with  him  — else 
Rapt  in  this  fancy  of  his  Table  Eound, 

130  And  swearing  men  to  vows  impossible, 

To  make  them  like  himself :  but,  friend,  to  me 
He  is  all  fault  who  has  no  fault  at  all : 
For  who  loves  me  must  have  a  touch  of  earth ; 
The  low  sun  makes  the  color :  I  am  yours, 

135  Not  Arthur's,  as  ye  know,  save  by  the  bond. 
And  therefore  hear  my  words :  go  to  the  jousts : 
The  tiny-trumpeting  gnat  can  break  our  dream 
When  sweetest ;  and  the  vermin  voices  here 
May  buzz  so  loud  —  we  scorn  them,  but  they  sting." 

140      Then  answer 'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of  knights : 
"  And  with  what  face,  after  my  pretext  made, 
Shall  I  appear,  O  Queen,  at  Camelot,  I 
Before  a  King  who  honors  his  own  word, 
As  if  it  were  his  God's  ?  " 

"  Yea,"  said  the  Queen, 
145  "  A  moral  child  without  the  craft  to  rule. 
Else  had  he  not  lost  me  :  but  listen  to  me, 
If  I  must  find  you  wit :  we  hear  it  said 
That  men  go  down  before  your  spear  at  a  touch. 
But  knowing  you  are  Lancelot ;  your  great  name, 
150  This  conquers  ;  hide  it  therefore  ;  go  unknown  : 

122.  That  passionate  perfection ;  Guinevere  thought  of  the 
king  as  Maud's  lover  of  her  :  — 

"  Faultily  faultless,  icily  regular,  splendidly  null." 


rO  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

Win !  by  this  kiss  you  will :  and  our  true  King 
Will  then  allow  your  pretext,  O  my  knight, 
As  all  for  glory  ;  for  to  speak  him  true. 
Ye  know  right  well,  how  meek  soe'er  he  seem, 
iM  No  keener  hunter  after  glory  breathes. 

He  loves  it  in  his  knights  more  than  himself : 
They  prove  to  him  his  work:  win  and  return." 

Then  got  Sir  Lancelot  suddenly  to  horse, 
Wroth  at  himself.     Not  willing  to  be  known, 

160  He  left  the  barren-beaten  thoroughfare. 

Chose  the  green  path  that  show'd  the  rarer  foot. 
And  there  among  the  solitary  downs. 
Full  often  lost  in  fancy,  lost  his  way ; 
Till  as  he  traced  a  faintly-shadow'd  track, 

165  That  all  in  loops  and  links  among  the  dales 
Kan  to  the  Castle  of  Astolat,  he  saw 
Fired  from  the  west,  far  on  a  hill,  the  towers. 
Thither  he  made,  and  blew  the  gateway  horn. 
Then  came  an  old,  dumb,  myriad-wrinkled  man 

170  Who  let  him  into  lodging  and  disarm'd. 
And  Lancelot  marvell'd  at  the  wordless  man ; 
And  issuing  found  the  Lord  of  Astolat 
With  two  strong  sons.  Sir  Torre  and  Sir  Lavaine, 
Moving  to  meet  him  in  the  castle  court ; 

175  And  close  behind  them  stept  the  lily  maid 
Elaine,  his  daughter :  mother  of  the  house 
There  was  not :  some  light  jest  among  them  rose 
With  laughter  dying  down  as  the  great  knight 
Approach'd  them :  then  the  Lord  of  Astolat: 

180  "  Whence  comest  thou,  my  guest,  and  by  what  name 
Livest  between  the  lips  ?  for  by  thy  state 

173.  Torre,  an  improvement  upon   Tirre,  as  Malory  called 
the  son. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE.  It 

And  presence  I  might  guess  the  chief  of  those, 
After  the  King,  who  eat  in  Arthur's  halls. 
Him  have  I  seen  :  the  rest,  his  Table  Round, 
185  Known  as  they  are,  to  me  they  are  unknown." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of  knights  : 
"  Known  am  I,  and  of  Arthur's  hall,  and  known, 
What  I  by  mere  mischance  have  brought,  my  shield. 
But  since  I  go  to  joust  as  one  unknown 
190  At  Camelot  for  the  diamond,  ask  me  not. 

Hereafter  ye  shall  know  me  —  and  the  shield  — 
I  pray  you  lend  me  one,  if  such  you  have. 
Blank,  or  at  least  with  some  device  not  mine." 

Then  said  the  Lord  of  Astolat,  "  Here  is  Torre's  : 
195  Hurt  in  his  first  tilt  was  my  son,  Sir  Torre  ; 
And  so,  God  wot,  his  shield  is  blank  enough. 
His  ye  can  have."     Then  added  plain  Sir  Torre, 
"  Yea,  since  I  cannot  use  it,  ye  may  have  it." 
Here  laugh'd  the  father  saying,  "  Fie,  Sir  Churl, 
200  Is  that  an  answer  for  a  noble  knight  ? 
Allow  him  !  but  Lavaine,  my  younger  here, 
He  is  so  full  of  lustihood,  he  will  ride, 
Joust  for  it,  and  win,  and  bring  it  in  an  hour, 
And  set  it  in  this  damsel's  golden  hair, 
205  To  make  her  thrice  as  wilful  as  before." 

"Nay,  father,  nay,  good  father,  shame  me  not 
Before  this  noble  knight,"  said  young  Lavaine, 
"  For  nothing.     Surely  I  but  play'd  on  Torre  i 
He  seem'd  so  sullen,  vext  he  could  not  go : 
no  A  jest,  no  more  !  for,  knight,  the  maiden  dreamt 
'  That  some  one  put  this  diamond  in  her  hand, 
And  that  it  was  too  slippery  to  be  held, 


72  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

And  slipt  and  fell  into  some  pool  or  stream. 
The  castle-well,  belike ;  and  then  I  said 

215  That  if  I  went  and  if  I  fought  and  won  it 
(But  all  was  jest  and  joke  among  ourselves) 
Then  must  she  keep  it  safelier.     All  was  jest. 
But,  father,  give  me  leave,  an  if  he  will. 
To  ride  to  Camelot  with  this  noble  knight : 

23C  Win  shall  I  not,  but  do  my  best  to  win  : 
Young  as  I  am,  yet  would  I  do  my  best." 

"  So  ye  will  grace  me,"  answer'd  Lancelot, 
Smiling  a  moment,  "  with  your  fellowship 
O'er  these  waste  downs  whereon  I  lost  myself, 

225  Then  were  I  glad  of  you  as  guide  and  friend : 
And  you  shall  win  this  diamond  —  as  I  hear, 
It  is  a  fair  large  diamond,  —  if  ye  may. 
And  yield  it  to  this  maiden,  if  ye  will." 
"  A  fair  large  diamond,"  added  plain  Sir  Torre, 

230  •'  Such  be  for  queens,  and  not  for  simple  maids." 
Then  she,  who  held  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
Elaine,  and  heard  her  name  so  tost  about, 
Flush'd  slightly  at  the  slight  disparagement 
Before  the  stranger  knight,  who,  looking  at  her, 

235  Full  courtly,  yet  not  falsely,  thus  return'd : 
"  If  what  is  fair  be  but  for  what  is  fair, 
And  only  queens  are  to  be  counted  so. 
Rash  were  my  judgment  then,  who  deem  this  maid 
Might  wear  as  fair  a  jewel  as  is  on  earth, 

240  Not  violating  the  bond  of  like  to  like." 

He  spoke  and  ceased :  the  lily  maid  Elaine, 
Won  by  the  mellow  voice  before  she  look'd, 

218.  An  if  ;  an  is  really  an  equivalent  of  (/*,  though,  both  aro 
sometimes  used  for  the  second  word. 


t 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE.  73 

Lifted  her  eyes,  and  read  his  lineaments. 
The  great  and  guilty  love  he  bare  the  Queen, 

2f*5  In  battle  with  the  love  he  bare  his  lord, 

Had  marr'd  his  face,  and  mark'd  it  ere  his  time. 
Another  sinning  on  such  heights  with  one. 
The  flower  of  all  the  west  and  all  the  worlds 
Had  been  the  sleeker  for  it ;  but  in  him 

250  His  mood  was  often  like  a  fiend,  and  rose 
And  drove  him  into  wastes  and  solitudes 
For  agony,  who  was  yet  a  living  soul. 
Marr'd  as  he  was,  he  seem'd  the  goodliest  man 
That  ever  among  ladies  ate  in  hall, 

255  And  noblest,  when  she  lifted  up  her  eyes. 
However  marr'd,  of  more  than  twice  her  years, 
Seam'd  with  an  ancient  swordcat  on  the  cheek. 
And  bruised  and  bronzed,  she  lifted  up  her  eyes 
And  loved  him,  with  that  love  which  was  her  doom 

260      Then  the  great  knight,  the  darling  of  the  court. 
Loved  of  the  loveliest,  into  that  rude  hall 
Stept  with  all  grace,  and  not  with  half  disdain 
Hid  under  grace,  as  in  a  smaller  time, 
But  kindly  man  moving  among  his  kind : 

265  Whom  they  with  meats  and  vintage  of  their  best, 
And  talk  and  minstrel  melody  entertain'd. 
And  mncli  they  ask'd  of  court  and  Table  Eound, 
And  ever  well  and  readily  answer'd  he  : 
But  Lancelot,  when  they  glanced  at  Guinevere, 

270  Suddenly  speaking  of  the  wordless  man. 
Heard  from  the  Baron  that,  ten  years  before. 
The  heathen  caught  and  reft  him  of  his  tongue. 
"  He  learnt  and  warn'd  me  of  their  fierce  design 
Against  my  house,  and  him  they  caught  and  maim'd  - 

275  But  I,  my  sons,  and  little  daughter  fled 


Y4  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

From  bonds  or  death,  and  dwelt  among  the  woods 
By  the  great  river  in  a  boatman's  hut. 
Dull  days  were  those,  till  our  good  Arthur  broke 
The  Pagan  yet  once  more  on  Badon  hill." 

280      "  O  there,  great  lord,  doubtless,"  Lavaine  said, 
rapt 
By  all  the  sweet  and  sudden  passion  of  youth 
Toward  greatness  in  its  elder,  "  you  have  fought. 
O  tell  us  —  for  we  live  apart  —  you  know 
Of  Arthur's  glorious  wars."     And  Lancelot  spoke 

285  And  answer'd  him  at  full,  as  having  been 
With  Arthur  in  the  fight  which  all  day  long 
Rang  by  the  white  mouth  of  the  violent  Glem ; 
And  in  the  four  loud  battles  by  the  shore 
Of  Duglas  ;  that  on  Bassa ;  then  the  war 

290  That  thunder'd  in  and  out  the  gloomy  skirts 
Of  Celidon  the  forest :  and  again 
By  castle  Gurnion,  where  the  glorious  King 
Had  on  his  cuirass  worn  our  Lady's  Head, 
Carved  of  one  emerald  center'd  in  a  sun 

295  Of  silver  rays,  that  lighten' d  as  he  breathed ; 
And  at  Caerleon  had  he  help'd  his  lord, 
When  the  strong  neighings  of  the  wild  White  Horse 

279.  Badon  Hill,  a  battle  of  actual  .history,  in  which  the 
Britons  defeated  the  West  Saxons. 

285-300.  The  names  of  these  battles  Tennyson  took  from 
other  pages  than  Malory's. 

297.  The  wild  "White  Horse.  In  "  Guinevere  "  the  "Lords 
of  the  White  Horse  "  are  described  as  "  the  brood  by  Hengist 
left,"  the  White  Horse  being  the  Saxon  symbol.  White  Horse 
Hill  in  Berkshire,  on  which  King  Alfred  is  said  to  have  wrought 
the  great  figure  of  a  white  horse  covering  an  acre  or  two  of 
ground,  to  commemorate  a  victory  over  the  Danes,  may  be 
seen  to-day  in  evidence  of  the  ancient  symbol.     "  The  Scouring 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE,  75 

Set  every  gilded  parapet  shuddering ; 
And  up  in  Agned-Cathregonion  too, 

m  And  down  the  waste  sand-shores  of  Trath  Treroit, 
Where  many  a  heathen  fell ;  "  and  on  the  mount 
Of  Bad  on  I  myself  beheld  the  King 
Charge  at  the  head  of  all  his  Table  Round, 
And  all  his  legions  crying  Christ  and  him, 

305  And  break  them  ;  and  I  saw  him,  after,  stand 
High  on  a  heap  of  slain,  from  spur  to  plume 
Red  as  the  rising  sun  with  heathen  blood. 
And  seeing  me,  with  a  great  voice  he  cried, 
'  They  are  broken,  they  are  broken !  '  for  the  King, 

310  However  mild  he  seems  at  home,  nor  cares 
For  triumph  in  our  mimic  wars,  the  jousts  — 
For  if  his  own  knight  cast  him  down,  he  laughs 
Saying,  his  knights  are  better  men  than  he  — 
Yet  in  this  heathen  war  the  fire  of  God 

315  Fills  him :  I  never  saw  his  like  :  there  lives 
No  greater  leader." 

While  he  utter'd  this, 
Low  to  her  own  heart  said  the  lily  maid, 
"  Save  your  great  self,  fair  lord  :  "  and  when  he  fell 
From  talk  of  war  to  traits  of  pleasantry  — 

320  Being  mirthful  he,  but  in  a  stately  kind  — 
She  still  took  note  that  when  the  living  smile 
Died  from  his  lips,  across  him  came  a  cloud 
Of  melancholy  severe,  from  which  again. 
Whenever  in  her  hovering  to  and  fro 

325  The  lily  maid  had  striven  to  make  him  cheer. 
There  brake  a  sudden-beaming  tenderness 

of  the  White  Horse,"  by  Thomas  Hughes,  preserves  many  of  the 
traditions  of  the  Hill,  and  tells  of  the  sports  of  1857  in  celebra- 
tion of  the  local  festival  in  honor  of  the  landmark. 


76  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

Of  manners  and  of  nature ;  and  she  thouglit 
That  all  was  nature,  all,  perchance,  for  her. 
And  all  night  long  his  face  before  her  lived, 

S30  As  when  a  painter,  poring  on  a  face. 
Divinely  thro'  all  hindrance  finds  the  man 
Behind  it  and  so  paints  him  that  his  face, 
The  shape  and  color  of  a  mind  and  life, 
Lives  for  his  children,  ever  at  its  best 

335  And  fullest ;  so  the  face  before  her  lived, 
Dark-splendid,  speaking  in  the  silence,  full 
Of  noble  things,  and  held  her  from  her  sleep. 
Till  rathe  she  rose,  half -cheated  in  the  thought 
She  needs  must  bid  farewell  to  sweet  Lavaine. 

340  First  as  in  fear,  step  after  step,  she  stole 
Down  the  long  tower-stairs,  hesitating : 
Anon,  she  heard  Sir  Lancelot  cry  in  the  court, 
"  This  shield,  my  friend,  where  is  it?  "  and  Lavaine 
Past  inward,  as  she  came  from,  out  the  tower. 

345  There   to  his   proud   horse   Lancelot   turn'd,   and 
smooth'd 
The  glossy  shoulder,  humming  to  himself. 
Half -envious  of  the  flattering  hand,  she  drew 
Nearer  and  stood.     He  look'd,  and  more  amazed 
Than  if  seven  men  had  set  upon  him,  saw 

850  The  maiden  standing  in  the  dewy  light. 
He  had  not  dream'd  she  was  so  beautiful. 
Then  came  on  him  a  sort  of  sacred  fear, 
For  silent,  tho'  he  greeted  her,  she  stood 
Eapt  on  his  face  as  if  it  were  a  god's. 

355  Suddenly  flash'd  on  her  a  wild  desire. 
That  he  should  wear  lier  favor  at  the  tilt. 

338.  Rathe,  early.  "  The  rathe  primrose,"  in  Milton's  "  Lyci- 
das,"  is  the  most  familiar  instance  of  the  word.  We  have  it  in 
its  comparative,  rather. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE.  Il 

She  braved  a  riotous  heart  in  asking  for  it. 

"  Fair  lord,  whose  name  I  know  not  —  noble  it  is, 

I  well  believe,  the  noblest  —  will  you  wear 

360  My  favor  at  this  tourney  ?  "     "  Nay,"  said  he, 
"  Fair  lady,  since  I  never  yet  have  worn 
Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists. 
Such  is  my  wont,  as  those  who  know  me  know." 
"  Yea,  so,"  she  answer'd  ;  "  then  in  wearing  mine 

365  Needs  must  be  lesser  likelihood,  noble  lord, 

That  those  who  know  should  know  you."     And  he 

turn'd 
Her  counsel  up  and  down  within  his  mind. 
And  found  it  true,  and  answer'd  :  "  True,  my  child. 
Well,  I  will  wear  it :  fetch  it  out  to  me  : 

370  What  is  it  ?  "  and  she  told  him  "  A  red  sleeve 
Broider'd  with  pearls,"  and  brought  it :  then  he 

bound 
Her  token  on  his  helmet,  with  a  smile. 
Saying,  "  I  never  yet  have  done  so  much 
For  any  maiden  living,"  and  the  blood 

375  Sprang  to  her  face  and  fill'd  her  with  delight ; 
But  left  her  all  the  paler,  when  Lavaine 
Returning  brought  the  yet-unblazon'd  shield, 
His  brother's ;  which  he  gave  to  Lancelot, 
Who  parted  with  his  own  to  fair  Elaine : 

280 "  Do  me  this  grace,  my  child,  to  have  my  shield 
In  keeping  till  I  come."     "  A  grace  to  me," 
She  answer'd,  "  twice  to-day.     I  am  your  squire !  " 
Whereat  Lavaine  said,  laughing,  "  Lily  maid, 
For  fear  our  people  call  you  lily  maid 

385  In  earnest,  let  me  bring  your  color  back ; 

Once,  twice,  and  thrice  :  now  get  you  hence  to  bed." 
So  kiss'd  her,  and  Sir  Lancelot  his  own  hand. 
And  thus  they  moved  away  :  she  stay'd  a  minute. 


78  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

Then  made  a  sudden  step  to  the  gate,  and  there  — 
S90  Her  bright  hair  blown  about  the  serious  face 
Yet  rosy-kindled  with  her  brother's  kiss  — 
Paused  by  the  gateway,  standing  near  the  shield 
In  silence,  while  she  watch' d  their  arms  far-off 
Sparkle,  until  they  dipt  below  the  downs. 
39.5  Then  to  her  tower  she  climb'd,  and  took  the  shield, 
There  kept  it,  and  so  lived  in  fantasy. 

Meanwhile  the  new  companions  past  away 
Far  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless  downs, 
To  where  Sir  Lancelot  knew  there  lived  a  knight 

400  Not  far  from  Camelot,  now  for  forty  years 
A  hermit,  who  had  pray'd,  labor'd  and  pray'd, 
And  ever  laboring  had  scoop'd  himself 
In  the  white  rock  a  chapel  and  a  hall 
On  massive  columns,  like  a  shorecliff  cave, 

405  And  cells  and  chambers  :  all  were  fair  and  dry ; 
The  green  light  from  the  meadows  underneath 
Struck  up  and  lived  along  the  milky  roofs ; 
And  in  the  meadows  tremulous  aspen-trees 
And  poplars  made  a  noise  of  falling  showers. 

410  And  thither  wending  there  that  night  they  bode. 

But  when  the  next  day  broke  from  underground, 
And  shot  red  fire  and  shadows  thro'  the  cave, 
They  rose,  heard  mass,  broke  fast,  and  rode  away : 
Then  Lancelot  saying,  "  Hear,  but  hold  my  name 

415  Hidden,  you  ride  with  Lancelot  of  the  Lake," 
Abash'd  Lavaine,  whose  instant  reverence. 
Dearer  to  true  young  hearts  than  their  own  praise, 
But  left  him  leave  to  stammer,  "  Is  it  indeed  ?  " 
And  after  muttering  "  The  great  Lancelot," 

120  At  last  he  got  his  breath  and  answer'd,  "^  One, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE,  79 

One  have  I  seen  —  that  other,  our  liege  lord, 
The  dread  Pendragon,  Britain's  King  of  kings, 
Of  whom  the  people  talk  mysteriously, 
He  will  be  there  —  then  were  I  stricken  blind 
42.5  That  minute,  I  might  say  that  I  had  seen." 

So  spake  Lavaine,  and  when  they  reach'd  the  lists 
By  Camelot  in  the  meadow,  let  his  eyes 
Run  thro'  the  peopled  gallery  which  half  round 
Lay  like  a  rainbow  fall'n  upon  the  grass, 

430  Until  they  found  the  clear-faced  King,  who  sat 
Eobed  in  red  samite,  easily  to  be  known. 
Since  to  his  crown  the  golden  dragon  clung, 
And  down  his  robe  the  dragon  writhed  in  gold, 
And  from  the  carven-work  behind  him  crept 

435  Two  dragons  gilded,  sloping  down  to  make 
Arms  for  his  chair,  while  all  the  rest  of  them 
Thro'  knots  and  loops  and  folds  innumerable 
ried  ever  thro'  the  woodwork,  till  they  found 
The  new  design  wherein  they  lost  themselves, 

440  Yet  with  all  ease,  so  tender  was  the  work : 
And,  in  the  costly  canopy  o'er  him  set, 
Blazed  the  last  diamond  of  the  nameless  king. 

Then  Lancelot  answer'd  young  Lavaine  and  said, 
"  Me  you  call  great :  mine  is  the  firmer  seat, 
445  The  truer  lance  :  but  there  is  many  a  youth 
Now  crescent,  who  will  come  to  all  I  am 
And  overcome  it ;  and  in  me  there  dwells 
No  greatness,  save  it  be  some  far-off  touch 
Of  greatness  to  know  well  I  am  not  great : 

422.  Pendragon  ;  this  name,  originally  applied  by  Geoffrey 
of  Monmouth  to  Uther,  is  used  here  as  elsewhere  for  Arthur. 
446.  Crescent,  literally  increasing. 


80  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

450  There  is  the  man."     And  Lavaine  gaped  upon  him 
As  on  a  thing  miraculous,  and  anon 
The  trumpets  blew ;  and  then  did  either  side, 
They  that  assail'd,  and  they  that  held  the  lists, 
Set  lance  in  rest,  strike  spur,  suddenly  move, 

455  Meet  in  the  midst,  and  there  so  furiously 
Shock,  that  a  man  far-off  might  well  perceive, 
If  any  man  that  day  were  left  afield. 
The  hard  earth  shake,  and  a  low  thunder  of  arms. 
And  Lancelot  bode  a  little,  till  he  saw 

460  Which  were  the  weaker ;  then  he  hurl'd  into  it 
Against  the  stronger :  little  need  to  speak 
Of  Lancelot  in  his  glory !     King,  duke,  earl, 
Count,  baron  —  whom  he  smote,  he  overthrew. 

But  in  the  field  were  Lancelot's  kith  and  kin, 

465  Ranged  with  the  Table  Round  that  held  the  lists, 
Strong  men,  and  wrathful  that  a  stranger  knight 
Should  do  and  almost  overdo  the  deeds 
Of  Lancelot ;  and  one  said  to  the  other,  "  Lo ! 
What  is  he  ?     I  do  not  mean  the  force  alone  — 

470  The  grace  and  versatility  of  the  man  ! 

Is  it  not  Lancelot  ?  '*     "  When  has  Lancelot  worn 
Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists  ? 
Not  such  his  wont,  as  we  that  know  him  know." 
"  How  then?  who  then  ?"  a  fury  seized  them  all, 

475  A  fiery  family  passion  for  the  name 
Of  Lancelot,  and  a  glory  one  with  theirs. 
They  couch'd  their  spears  and  prick'd  their  steeds, 

and  thus 
Their  plumes  driv'n  backward  by  the  wind  they  made 
In  moving,  all  together  down  upon  him 

J80  Bare,  as  a  wild  wave  in  the  wide  ISTorth-sea, 

453.  The  lists,  the  enclosure  ;  in  modern  parlance,  the  ring. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE.  81 

Green-glimmering  toward  the  summit,  bears,  witli  all 
Its  stormy  crests  that  smoke  against  the  skies, 
Down  on  a  bark,  and  overbears  the  bark, 
And  him  that  helms  it,  so  they  overbore 
485  Sir  Lancelot  and  his  charger,  and  a  spear 
Down-glancing  lamed  the  charger,  and  a  spear 
Prick'd  sharply  his  own  cuirass,  and  the  head 
Pierced  thro'  his  side,  and  there  snapt,  and  remain'da 

Then  Sir  Lavaine  did  well  and  worshipfuUy ; 

490  He  bore  a  knight  of  old  repute  to  the  earth, 
And  brought  his  horse  to  Lancelot  where  he  lay. 
He  up  the  side,  sweating  with  agony,  got. 
But  thought  to  do  while  he  might  yet  endure, 
And  being  lustily  holpen  by  the  rest, 

495  His  party,  —  tho'  it  seera'd  half -miracle 

To  those  he  fought  with,  —  drave  his  kith  and  kin^ 
And  all  the  Table  Kound  that  held  the  lists, 
Back  to  the  barrier ;  then  the  trumpets  blew 
Proclaiming  his  the  prize,  who  wore  the  sleeve 

500  Of  scarlet,  and  the  pearls ;  and  all  the  knights, 
His  party,  cried  "  Advance  and  take  thy  prize 
The  diamond  ;  "  but  he  answer'd,  "  Diamond  me 
Xo  diamonds !  for  God's  love,  a  little  air ! 
Prize  me  no  prizes,  for  my  prize  is  death ! 

505  Hence  will  I,  and  I  charge  you,  follow  me  not." 

He  spoke,  and  vanish'd  suddenly  from  the  field 
With  young  Lavaine  into  the  poplar  grove. 
There  from  his  charger  down  he  slid,  and  sat. 
Gasping  to  Sir  Lavaine,  "  Draw  the  lance-head :  " 
510  "  Ah  my  sweet  lord  Sir  Lancelot,"  said  Lavaine, 

502,  503.     Diamond  me  No  diamonds  ;  a  common  form  o^ 
denial  and  refusal,  often  found  in  the  Elizabethan  writers. 


82  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

"  I  dread  me,  if  I  draw  it,  you  will  die." 
But  he,  "  I  die  already  with  it :  draw  — 
Draw,"  —  and  Lavaine  drew,  and  Sir  Lancelot  gave 
A  marvellous  great  shriek  and  ghastly  groan, 

35  And  half  his  blood  burst  forth,  and  down  he  sank 
For  the  pure  pain,  and  wholly  swoon'd  away. 
Then  came  the  hermit  out  and  bare  him  in. 
There  stanch'd  his  wound  ;  and  there,  in  daily  doubt 
Whether  to  live  or  die,  for  many  a  week 

320  Hid  from  the  wide  world's  rumor  by  the  grove 
Of  poplars  with  their  noise  of  falling  showers, 
And  ever-tremulous  aspen-trees,  he  lay. 

But  on  that  day  when  Lancelot  fled  the  lists, 
His  party,  knights  of  utmost  North  and  West, 

525  Lords  of  waste  marches,  kings  of  desolate  isles. 
Came  round  their  great  Pendragon,  saying  to  him, 
"  Lo,  Sire,  our  knight,  thro'  whom  we  won  the  day, 
Hath  gone  sore  wounded,  and  hath  left  his  prize 
Untaken,  crying  that  his  prize  is  death." 

630 "  Heaven  hinder,"  said  the  King,  "  that  such  an  one, 
So  great  a  knight  as  we  have  seen  to-day  — 
He  seem'd  to  me  another  Lancelot  — 
Yea,  twenty  times  I  thought  him  Lancelot  — 
He  must  not  pass  uncared  for.     Wherefore,  rise, 

585  O  Gawain,  and  ride  forth  and  find  the  knight. 
Wounded  and  wearied,  needs  must  he  be  near. 
I  charge  you  that  you  get  at  once  to  horse. 
And,  knights  and  kings,  there  breathes  not  one  of  you 
Will  deem  this  prize  of  ours  is  rashly  given : 

614.  A  marvellous  great  shriek  ;  Malory  has  it :  "  And 
he  gave  a  great  shriek,  and  a  marvellous  grisly  groan,  and  his 
blood  brast  out  nigh  a  pint  at  once,  that  at  last  he  sank  down, 
and  so  swooned  pale  and  deadly." 


LANCELOT  A^D  ELAINE.  83 

540  His  prowess  was  too  wondrous.     We  will  do  him 
No  customary  honor :  since  the  knight 
Came  not  to  us,  of  us  to  claim  the  prize, 
Ourselves  will  send  it  after.     Eise  and  take 
This  diamond,  and  deliver  it,  and  return, 

645  And  bring  us  where  he  is,  and  how  he  fares, 
And  cease  not  from  your  quest  until  ye  find." 

So  saying,  from  the  carven  flower  above, 
To  which  it  made  a  restless  heart,  he  took. 
And  gave,  the  diamond :  then  from  where  he  sat 

650  At  Arthur's  right,  with  smiling  face  arose. 
With  smiling  face  and  frowning  heart,  a  Prince 
In  the  mid  might  and  flourish  of  his  May, 
Gawain,  surnamed  The  Courteous,  fair  and  strong. 
And  after  Lancelot,  Tristram,  and  Geraint 

055  And  Gareth,  a  good  knight,  but  therewithal 
Sir  Modred's  brother,  and  the  child  of  Lot, 
Nor  often  loyal  to  his  word,  and  now 
Wroth  that  the  King's  command  to  sally  forth 
In  quest  of  whom  he  knew  not,  made  him  leave 

560  The  banquet,  and  concourse  of  knights  and  kings. 

So  all  in  wrath  he  got  to  horse  and  went ; 
While  Arthur  to  the  banquet,  dark  in  mood. 
Past,  thinking,  "Is  it  Lancelot  who  hath  come 
Despite  the  wound  he  spake  of,  all  for  gain 
565  Of  glory,  and  hath  added  wound  to  wound. 
And  ridd'n  away  to  die  ?  "     So  fear'd  the  King, 
And,  after  two  days'  tarriance  there,  return'd. 
Then  when  he  saw  the  Queen,  embracing  ask'd, 
"  Love,  are  you  yet  so  sick  ?  "  "  Nay,  lord,"  she  said, 
870  "And   where   is   Lancelot?"      Then    the    Queen 
amazed, 

645.  Bring  us,  etc.  =  bring  us  news. 


84  LANCELOT,AND  ELAINE. 

"  Was  he  not  with  you  ?  won  he  not  your  prize  ?  " 
"  Nay,  but  one  like  him."     "  Why  that  like  was  he." 
And  when  the  King  demanded  how  she  knew, 
Said,  "  Lord,  no  sooner  had  ye  parted  from  us, 

575  Than  Lancelot  told  me  of  a  common  talk 

That  men  went  down  before  his  spear  at  a  touch, 
But  knowing  he  was  Lancelot ;  his  great  name 
Conquer'd  ;  and  therefore  would  he  hide  his  name 
From  all  men,  ev'n  the  King,  and  to  this  end 

680  Had  made  the  pretext  of  a  hindering  wound. 
That  he  might  joust  unknown  of  all,  and  learn 
If  his  old  prowess  were  in  aught  decay'd ; 
And  added,  'Our  true  Arthur,  when  he  learns, 
Will  well  allow  my  pretext,  as  for  gain 

585  Of  purer  glory.'  " 

Then  replied  the  King : 
"  Far  lovelier  in  our  Lancelot  had  it  been, 
In  lieu  of  idly  dallying  with  the  truth. 
To  have  trusted  me  as  he  hath  trusted  thee. 
Surely  his  King  and  most  familiar  friend 

590  Might  well  have  kept  his  secret.     True,  indeed, 
Albeit  I  know  my  knights  fantastical. 
So  fine  a  fear  in  our  large  Lancelot 
Must  needs  have  moved  my  laughter :  now  remains 
But  little  cause  for  laughter  :  his  own  kin  — 

595  111  news,  my  Queen,  for  all  who  love  him,  this!- — 
His  kith  and  kin,  not  knowing,  set  upon  him ; 
So  that  he  went  sore  wounded  from  the  field : 
Yet  good  news  too :  for  goodly  hopes  are  mine 
That  Lancelot  is  no  more  a  lonely  heart. 

800  He  wore,  against  his  wont,  upon  his  helm 

683.  Our  true  Arthur,  see  1.  151. 
692.  Fine  =  subtle. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE.  86 

A  sleeve  of  scarlet,  broider'd  with  great  pearls, 
Some  gentle  maiden's  gift." 

"  Yea,  lord,"  she  said, 
"  Thy  hopes  are  mine,"  and  saying  that,  she  choked, 
And  sharply  turn'd  about  to  hide  her  face, 

>05  Past  to  her  chamber,  and  there  flung  herself 

Down  on  the  great  King's  couch,  and  writhed  upon  it, 
And  clench'd  her  fingers  till  they  bit  the  palm, 
And  shriek'd  out  "Traitor!"  to  the  unhearing  wall, 
Then  flash'd  into  wild  tears,  and  rose  again, 

610  And  moved  about  her  palace,  proud  and  pale. 

Gawain  the  while  thro'  all  the  region  round 
Rode  with  his  diamond,  wearied  of  the  quest, 
Touch'd  at  all  points,  except  the  poplar  grove, 
And  came  at  last,  tho'  late,  to  Astolat : 

615  Whom  glittering  in  enamell'd  arms  the  maid 

Glanced  at,  and  cried,  "  What  news  from  Camelot, 

lord? 
What  of  the  knight  with  the  red  sleeve?"     "He 

won." 
"  I  knew  it,"  she  said.     "  But  parted  from  the  jousts 
Hurt  in  the  side,"  whereat  she  caught  her  breath ; 

620  Thro'  her  own  side  she  felt  the  sharp  lance  go ; 
Thereon  she  smote  her  hand  ;  wellnigh  she  swoon'd  ,• 
And,  while  he  gazed  wonderingly  at  her,  came 
The  Lord  of  Astolat  out,  to  whom  the  Prince 
Reported  who  he  was,  and  on  what  quest 

e25  Sent,  that  he  bore  the  prize  and  could  not  find 
The  victor,  but  had  ridd'n  a  random  round 
To  seek  him,  and  had  wearied  of  the  search. 
To  whom  the  Lord  of  Astolat,  "  Bide  with  us, 
And  ride  no  more  at  random,  noble  Prince  I 

MO  Here  was  the  knight,  and  here  he  left  a  shield ; 


86  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

This  will  he  send  or  come  for :  furthermore 

Our  son  is  with  him.;  we  shall  hear  anon, 

Needs  must  we  hear."     To  this  the  courteous  Prince 

Accorded  with  his  wonted  courtesy, 

S35  Courtesy  with  a  touch  of  traitor  in  it, 

And  stay'd ;  and  cast  his  eyes  on  fair  Elaine : 
Where  could  be  found  face  daintier  ?  then  her  shape. 
From  forehead  down  to  foot,  perfect  —  again 
From  foot  to  forehead  exquisitely  turn'd : 

640  "  Well —  if  I  bide,  lo  !  this  wild  flower  for  me!  " 
And  oft  they  met  among  the  garden  yews, 
And  there  he  set  himself  to  play  upon  her 
With  sallying  wit,  free  flashes  from  a  height 
Above  her,  graces  of  the  court,  and  songs, 

frio  Sighs,  and  slow  smiles,  and  golden  eloquence 
And  amorous  adulation,  till  the  maid 
RebelFd  against  it,  saying  to  him,  "  Prince, 
O  loyal  nephew  of  our  noble  King, 
Why  ask  you  not  to  see  the  shield  he  left, 

650  Whence  you  might  learn  his  name  ?     Why  slight 
your  King 
And  lose  the  quest  he  sent  you  on,  and  prove 
No  surer  than  our  falcon  yesterday. 
Who  lost  the  hern  we  slipt  her  at,  and  went 
To  all  the  winds  ?  "    *'  Nay,  by  mine  head,"  said  he, 

655 "  I  lose  it,  as  we  lose  the  lark  in  heaven, 
O  damsel,  in  the  light  of  your  blue  eyes ; 
But  an  ye  will  it  let  me  see  the  shield." 
And  when  the  shield  was  brought,  and  Gawain  saw 
Sir  Lancelot's  azure  lions,  crown'd  with  gold, 

660  Ramp  in  the  field,  he  smote  his  thigh,  and  mock'd : 

636-700.  The  episode  of  Gawain's  trying  to  win  Elaine's  love 
,  is  Tennyson's  invention.     Malory  says  nothing  of  it,  though  in 
his  narrative  Gawain  came  to  Astolat. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE,  87 

"  Right  was  the  King !  our  Lancelot !  that  true  man ! " 
"  And  right  was  I,"  she  answer'd  merrily,  "  I, 
Who  dream'd  my  knight  the  greatest  knight  of  all." 
"And  if  /dream'd,"  said  Gawain,  "that  you  love 

865  This  greatest  knight,  your  pardon  !  lo,  .ye  know  it  1 
Speak  therefore  :  shall  I  waste  myself  in  vain  ?  " 
Full  simple  was  her  answer,  "  What  know  I  ? 
My  brethren  have  been  all  my  fellowship ; 
And  I,  when  often  they  have  talk'd  of  love, 

870  Wish'd  it  had  been  my  mother,  for  they  talk'd, 
Meseem'd,  of  what  they  knew  not ;  so  myself  — 
I  know  not  if  I  know  what  true  love  is, 
But  if  I  know,  then,  if  I  love  not  him, 
I  know  there  is  none  other  I  can  love." 

875  "  Yea,  by  God's  death,"  said  he,  "  ye  love  him  well, 
But  would  not,  knew  ye  what  all  others  know, 
And  whom  he  loves."     "  So  be  it,"  cried  Elaine, 
And  lifted  her  fair  face  and  moved  away : 
But  he  pursued  her,  calling,  "  Stay  a  little ! 

680  One  golden  minute's  grace !  he  wore  your  sleeve : 
Would  he  break  faith  with  one  I  may  not  name  ? 
Must  our  true  man  change  like  a  leaf  at  last  ? 
Nay  —  like  enow  :  why  then,  far  be  it  from  me 
To  cross  our  mighty  Lancelot  in  his  loves ! 

685  And,  damsel,  for  I  deem  you  know  full  well 
Where  your  great  knight  is  hidden,  let  me  leave 
My  quest  with  you ;  the  diamond  also :   here  I 
For  if  you  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  give  it ; 
And  if  he  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  have  it 

©0  From  your  own  hand  ;  and  whether  he  love  or  not 
A  diamond  is  a  diamond.     Fare  you  well 
A  thousand  times  !  —  a  thousand  times  farewell ! 
Yet,  if  he  love,  and  his  love  hold,  we  two 
May  meet  at  court  hereafter ;  there,  I  think, 


88  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

898  So  ye  will  learn  the  courtesies  of  the  court, 
"We  two  shall  know  each  other." 

Then  he  gave, 
And  slightly  kiss'd  the  hand  to  which  he  gave, 
The  diamond,  and  all  wearied  of  the  quest 
Leapt  on  his  horse,  and  carolling  as  he  went 
TOO  A  true-love  ballad,  lightly  rode  away. 

Thence  to  the  court  he  past ;  there  told  the  King 
What  the  King  knew,  "  Sir  Lancelot  is  the  knight.'* 
And  added,  "  Sire,  my  liege,  so  much  I  learnt ; 
But  f  ail'd  to  find  him  tho'  I  rode  all  round 
705  The  region  :  but  I  lighted  on  the  maid 

Whose  sleeve  he  wore  ;  she  loves  him :   and  to  her, 

Deeming  our  courtesy  is  the  truest  law, 

I  gave  the  diamond :    she  will  render  it ; 

For  by  mine  head  she  knows  his  hiding-place." 

no      The  seldom-frowning  King  frown'd,  and  replied, 
"  Too  courteous  truly !  ye  shall  go  no  more 
On  quest  of  mine,  seeing  that  ye  forget 
•  Obedience  is  the  courtesy  due  to  kings." 

He  spake  and  parted.     Wroth,  but  all  in  awe, 
ns  For  twenty  strokes  of  the  blood,  without  a  word, 
Linger'd  that  other,  staring  after  him  ; 
Then  shook  his  hair,  strode  off,  and  buzz'd  abroad 
About  the  maid  of  Astolat,  and  her  love. 
All  ears  were  prick'd  at  once,  all  tongues  were  loosed. 
320  "  The  maid  of  Astolat  loves  Sir  Lancelot, 
Sir  Lancelot  loves  the  maid  of  Astolat." 
Some  read  the  King's  face,  some  the  Queen's,  and  aU 
Had  marvel  what  the  maid  might  be,  but  most 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE.  89 

Predoom'd  her  as  unworthy.     One  old  dame 
725  Came  suddenly  on  the  Queen  with  the  sharp  news. 
She,  that  had  heard  the  noise  of  it  before, 
But  sorrowing  Lancelot  should  have  stoop'd  so  low^ 
Marr'd  her  friend's  aim  with  pale  tranquillity. 
So  ran  the  tale  like  fire  about  the  court, 
?30  Fire  in  dry  stubble  a  nine-days'  wonder  flared : 
Tin  ev'n  the  knights  at  banquet  twice  or  thrice 
Forgot  to  drink  to  Lancelot  and  the  Queen, 
And  pledging  Lancelot  and  the  lily  maid 
Smiled  at  each  other,  while  the  Queen,  who  sat 
?35  With  lips  severely  placid,  felt  the  knot 

Climb  in  her  throat,  and  with  her  feet  unseen 
Crush'd  the  wild  passion  out  against  the  floor 
Beneath  the  banquet,  where  the  meats  became 
As  wormwood,  and  she  hated  all  who  pledged. 

T40      But  far  away  the  maid  in  Astolat, 
Her  guiltless  rival,  she  that  ever  kept 
The  one-day-seen  Sir  Lancelot  in  her  heart, 
Crept  to  her  father,  while  he  mused  alone, 
Sat  on  his  knee,  stroked  his  gray  face  and  said, 

745  "  Father,  you  call  me  wilful,  and  the  fault 
Is  yours  who  let  me  have  my  will,  and  now, 
Sweet  father,  will  you  let  me  lose  my  wits  ?  " 
"  Nay,"   said  he,    "  surely."    "  Wherefore,  let  me 

hence," 
She  answer'd,  "  and  find  out  our  dear  Lavaine." 

160  "  Ye  will  not  lose  your  wits  for  dear  Lavaine  : 
Bide,"  answer'd  he  :   "  we  needs  must  hear  anon 
Of  him,  and  of  that  other."     "  Ay,"  she  said, 
"  And  of  that  other,  for  I  needs  must  hence 

728.  Marr'd  her  friend's  aim,  etc.  =  received  the  news  so 
calmly  that  the  gossip  was  disappointed  of  her  purpose. 


90  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

And  find  that  other,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 

755  And  with  mine  own  hand  give  his  diamond  to  him. 
Lest  I  be  found  as  faithless  in  the  quest 
As  yon  proud  Prince  who  left  the  quest  to  me. 
Sweet  father,  I  behold  him  in  my  dreams 
Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself, 

760  Death-pale,  for  lack  of  gentle  maiden's  aid. 
The  gentler-born  the  maiden,  the  more  bound, 
My  father,  to  be  sweet  and  serviceable 
To  noble  knights  in  sickness,  as  ye  know, 
When  these  have  worn  their  tokens :  let  me  hence, 

765 1  pray  you."     Then  her  father  nodding  said, 
"  Ay,  ay,  the  diamond  :  wit  ye  well,  my  child, 
Right  fain  were  I  to  learn  this  knight  were  whole, 
Being  our  greatest :  yea,  and  you  must  give  it  - — 
And  sure  I  think  this  fruit  is  hung  too  high 

770  For  any  mouth  to  gape  for  save  a  queen's  — 
Nay,  I  mean  nothing  :  so  then,  get  you  gone, 
Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go." 

Lightly,  her  suit  allow'd,  she  slipt  away. 
And  while  she  made  her  ready  for  her  ride, 

775  Her  father's  latest  word  humm'd  in  her  ear, 
"  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go," 
And  changed  itself  and  echo'd  in  her  heart, 
"  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  die." 
But  she  was  happy  enough  and  shook  it  off, 

780  As  we  shake  off  the  bee  that  buzzes  at  us ; 
And  in  her  heart  she  answer'd  it  and  said, 
"  What  matter,  so  I  help  him  back  to  life  ?  " 
Then  far  away  with  good  Sir  Torre  for  guide 
Rode  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless  downs 

785  To  Camelot,  and  before  the  city-gates 
Came  on  her  brother  with  a  happy  face 


i 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE.  91 

Making  a  roan  horse  caper  and  curvet 
For  pleasure  all  about  a  field  of  flowers  : 
Whom  when  she  saw,  "  Lavaine,"  she  cried,  "  Lar 
vaine, 

190  How  fares  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot  ?  "     He  amazed, 
"  Torre  and  Elaine  !  why  here  ?     Sir  Lancelot  ? 
How  know  ye  my  lord's  name  is  Lancelot  ?  " 
But  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  her  tale, 
Then  turn'd  Sir  Torre,  and  being  in  his  moods 

795  Left  them,  and  under  the  strange-statued  gate. 
Where  Arthur's  wars  were  rendered  mystically, 
Past  up  the  still  rich  city  to  his  kin, 
His  own  far  blood,  which  dwelt  at  Camelot ; 
And  her  Lavaine  across  the  poplar  grove 

800  Led  to  the  caves :  there  first  she  saw  the  casque 
Of  Lancelot  on  the  wall :  her  scarlet  sleeve, 
Tho'  carved  and  cut,  and  half  the  pearls  away, 
Streamed  from  it  still ;  and  in  her  heart  she  laugh'd, 
Because  he  had  not  loosed  it  from  his  helm, 

805  But  meant  once  more  perchance  to  tourney  in  it. 
And  when  they  gain'd  the  cell  wherein  he  slept, 
His  battle-writhen  arms  and  mighty  hands 
Lay  naked  on  the  wolfskin,  and  a  dream 
Of  dragging  down  his  enemy  made  them  move. 

•10  Then  she  that  saw  him  lying  unsleek,  unshorn. 
Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself, 
Utter'd  a  little  tender  dolorous  cry. 
The  sound  not  wonted  in  a  place  so  still 
Woke  the  sick  knight,  and  while  he  roll'd  his  eyes 

815  Yet  blank  from  sleep,  she  started  to  him,  saying, 
"  Your  prize  the  diamond  sent  you  by  the  King : " 
His  eyes  glisten'd :  she  fancied  "  Is  it  for  me  ?  " 
And  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  the  tale 
798.  Blood  =  kingmen. 


M  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

Of  King  and  Prince,  the  diamond  sent,  the  quest 

820  Assigned  to  her  not  worthy  of  it,  she  knelt 
Full  lowly  by  the  corners  of  his  bed, 
And  laid  the  diamond  in  his  open  hand. 
Her  face  was  near,  and  as  we  kiss  the  child 
That  does  the  task  assign'd,  he  kiss'd  her  face. 

825  At  once  she  slipt  like  water  to  the  floor. 

"  Alas,"  he  said,  "  your  ride  hath  wearied  you. 
Eest  must  you  have."     "No  rest  for  me,"  she  said; 
"  Nay,  for  near  you,  fair  lord,  I  am  at  rest." 
What  might  she  mean  by  that  ?  his  large  black  eyes. 

830  Yet  larger  thro'  his  leanness,  dwelt  upon  her, 
Till  all  her  heart's  sad  secret  blazed  itself 
In  the  heart's  colors  on  her  simple  face ; 
And  Lancelot  look'd  and  was  perplext  in  mind, 
And  being  weak  in  body  said  no  more ; 

835  But  did  not  love  the  color  ;  woman's  love, 
Save  one,  he  not  regarded,  and  so  turn'd 
Sighing,  and  feign'd  a  sleep  until  he  slept. 

Then  rose  Elaine  and  glided  thro'  the  fields, 
And  past  beneath  the  weirdly-sculptured  gates 

840  Far  up  the  dim  rich  city  to  her  kin ; 

There  bode  the  night ;  but  woke  with  dawn,  and 

past 
Down  thro'  the  dim  rich  city  to  the  fields, 
Thence  to  the  cave  :  so  day  by  day  she  past 
In  either  twilight  ghost-like  to  and  fro 

845  Gliding,  and  every  day  she  tended  him. 
And  likewise  many  a  night :  and  Lancelot 
Would,  tho'  he  call'd  his  wound  a  little  hurt 
Whereof  he  should  be  quickly  whole,  at  times 
Brain-feverous  in  his  heat  and  agony,  seem 

!50  Uncourteous,  even  he  :  but  the  meek  maid 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE.  93 

Sweetly  f orebore  him  ever,  being  to  him 
Meeker  than  any  child  to  a  rough  nurse, 
Milder  than  any  mother  to  a  sick  child. 
And  never  woman  yet,  since  man's  first  fall, 

355  Did  kindlier  unto  man,  but  her  deep  love 
Upbore  her ;  till  the  hermit,  skill'd  in  all 
The  simples  and  the  science  of  that  time. 
Told  him  that  her  fine  care  had  saved  his  life. 
And  the  sick  man  forgot  her  simple  blush, 

860  Would  call  her  friend  and  sister,  sweet  Elaine, 
Would  listen  for  her  coming  and  regret 
Her  parting  step,  and  held  her  tenderly. 
And  loved  her  with  all  love  except  the  love 
Of  man  and  woman  when  they  love  their  best, 

865  Closest  and  sweetest,  and  had  died  the  death 
In  any  knightly  fashion  for  her  sake. 
And  peradventure  had  he  seen  her  first 
She  might  have  made  this  and  that  other  world 
Another  world  for  the  sick  man  ;  but  now 

870  The  shackles  of  an  old  love  straiten'd  him, 
His  honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stood, 
And  faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely  true. 

Yet  the  great  knight  in  his  mid-sickness  made 
Full  many  a  holy  vow  and  pure  resolve. 

875  These,  as  but  born  of  sickness,  could  not  live : 
For  when  the  blood  ran  lustier  in  him  again. 
Full  often  the  bright  image  of  one  face. 
Making  a  treacherous  quiet  in  his  heart, 
Dispersed  his  resolution  like  a  cloud. 

380  Then  if  the  maiden,  while  that  ghostly  grace 
Beamed  on  his  fancy,  spoke,  he  answer'd  not. 
Or  short  and  coldly,  and  she  knew  right  well 
What   the   rough   sickness   meant,  but   what   this 
meant 


94  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

She  knew  not,  and  the  sorrow  dimm'd  her  sight, 
385  And  drave  her  ere  her  time  across  the  fields 
Far  into  the  rich  city,  where  alone 
She  murmur'd,  "  Vain,  in  vain  :  it  cannot  be. 
He  will  not  love  me  :  how  then  ?  must  I  die  ?  " 
Then  as  a  little  helpless  innocent  bird, 
890  That  has  but  one  plain  passage  of  few  notes, 
Will  sing  the  simple  passage  o'er  and  o'er 
For  all  an  April  morning,  till  the  ear 
Wearies  to  hear  it,  so  the  simple  maid 
Went  half  the  night  repeating,  "  Must  I  die  ?  " 
895  And  now  to  right  she  turn'd,  and  now  to  left, 
And  found  no  ease  in  turning  or  in  rest ; 
And  "  Him  or  death,"  she  mutter'd,  "  death  or  him," 
Again  and  like  a  burthen,  "Him  or  death." 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot's  deadly  hurt  was  whole, 

900  To  Astolat  returning  rode  the  three. 

There  morn  by  morn,  arraying  her  sweet  self 
In  that  wherein  she  deem'd  she  look'd  her  best. 
She  came  before  Sir  Lancelot,  for  she  thought 
"  If  I  be  loved,  these  are  my  festal  robes, 

•05  If  not,  the  victim's  flowers  before  he  fall." 
And  Lancelot  ever  prest  upon  the  maid 
That  she  should  ask  some  goodly  gift  of  him 
For  her  own  self  or  hers ;  "  and  do  not  shun 
To  speak  the  wish  most  near  to  your  true  heart  5 

aio  Such  service  have  ye  done  me,  that  I  make 
My  will  of  yours,  and  Prince  and  Lord  am  I 
In  mine  own  land,  and  what  I  will  I  can." 
Then  like  a  ghost  she  lifted  up  her  face. 
But  like  a  ghost  without  the  power  to  speak.  . 

905.  The    victim's    flo"V7ers,   with   which    the    beast    was 
decked  for  sacrifice. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE,  9S 

915  And  Lancelot  saw  that  she  withheld  her  wish, 
And  bode  among  them  yet  a  little  space 
Till  he  should  learn  it ;  and  one  morn  it  chanced 
He  found  her  in  among  the  garden  yews, 
And  said,  "  Delay  no  longer,  speak  your  wish, 

920  Seeing  I  go  to-day  :  "  then  out  she  brake : 
"  Going?  and  we  shall  never  see  you  more. 
And  I  must  die  for  want  of  one  bold  word." 
"  Speak  :  that  I  live  to  hear,"  he  said,  "  is  yours." 
Then  suddenly  and  passionately  she  spoke : 

925  "  I  have  gone  mad.     I  love  you  :  let  me  die." 
"  Ah,  sister,"  answer'd  Lancelot,  "  what  is  this  ?  " 
And  innocently  extending  her  white  arms, 
"  Your  love,"  she  said,  "  your  love  —  to   be   your 

wife." 
And  Lancelot  answer'd,  "  Had  I  chosen  to  wed, 

930 1  had  been  wedded  earlier,  sweet  Elaine  : 
But  now  there  never  will  be  wife  of  mine." 
"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  "  I  care  not  to  be  wife, 
But  to  be  with  you  still,  to  see  your  face, 
To  serve  you,  and  to  follow  you  thro'  the  world." 

935  And   Lancelot    answer'd,   "  Nay,   the    world,   the 
world. 
All  ear  and  eye,  with  such  a  stupid  heart 
To  interpret  ear  and  eye,  and  such  a  tongue 
To  blare  its  own  interpretation  —  nay. 
Full  ill  then  should  I  quit  your  brother's  love, 

940  And  your  good  father's  kindness."     And  she  said, 
"  Not  to  be  with  you,  not  to  see  your  face  — 
Alas  for  me  then,  my  good  days  are  done." 
"  Nay,  noble  maid,"  he  answer'd,  "  ten  times  nay  ! 
This  is  not  love  :  but  love's  first  flash  in  youth, 

923.  That  I  live  to  hear,  etc.  =  it  is  through  you  that  I  am 
alive. 


96  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

945  Most  common  :  yea,  I  know  it  of  mine  own  self : 
And  you  yourseK  will  smile  at  your  own  self 
Hereafter,  when  you  yield  your  flower  of  life 
To  one  more  fitly  yours,  not  thrice  your  age  : 
And  then  will  I,  for  true  you  are  and  sweet, 

950  Beyond  mine  old  belief  in  womanhood. 

More  specially  should  your  good  knight  be  poor, 
Endow  you  with  broad  land  and  territory 
Even  to  the  half  my  realm  beyond  the  seas, 
So  that  would  make  you  happy  :  furthermore, 

955  Ev'n  to  the  death,  as  tho'  ye  were  my  blood, 
In  all  your  quarrels  will  I  be  your  knight. 
This  will  I  do,  dear  damsel,  for  your  sake. 
And  more  than  this  I  cannot." 

While  he  spoke 
She  neither  blush'd  nor  shook,  but  deathly-pale 
960  Stood  grasping  what  was  nearest,  then  replied : 
"  Of  all  this  will  I  nothing ;  "  and  so  fell, 
And  thus  they  bore  her  swooning  to  her  tower. 

Then  spake,  to  whom  thro'  those  black  walls  of 
yew 
Their  talk  had  pierced,  her  father :  "  Ay,  a  flash, 
965 1  fear  me,  that  will  strike  my  blossom  dead. 
Too  courteous  are  ye,  fair  Lord  Lancelot. 
I  pray  you,  use  some  rough  discourtesy 
To  blunt  or  break  her  passion." 

Lancelot  said, 
"  That  were  against  me :  what  I  can  I  will ;  " 
970  And  there  that  day  remain'd,  and  toward  even 
Sent  for  his  shield  :  full  meekly  rose  the  maid, 
Stript  off  the  case,  and  gave  the  naked  shield  ; 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE.  97 

Then,  when  she  heard  his  horse  upon  the  stones, 

Unclasping  flung  the  casement  back,  and  look'd 
375  Down  on  his  helm,  from  which  her  sleeve  had  gone* 

And  Lancelot  knew  the  little  clinking  sound ; 

And  she  by  tact  of  love  was  well  aware 

That  Lancelot  knew  that  she  was  looking  at  him. 

And  yet  he  glanced  not  up,  nor  waved  his  hand, 
980  Nor  bade  farewell,  but  sadly  rode  away. 

This  was  the  one  discourtesy  that  he  used. 

So  in  her  tower  alone  the  maiden  sat : 
His  very  shield  was  gone ;  only  the  case, 
Her  own  poor  work,  her  empty  labor,  left. 

985  But  still  she  heard  him,  still  his  picture  form'd 
And  grew  between  her  and  the  pictured  wall. 
Then  came  her  father,  saying  in  low  tones, 
•"  Have  comfort,"  whom  she  greeted  quietly. 
Then  came  her  brethren  saying,  "  Peace  to  thee, 

990  Sweet  sister,"  whom  she  answer'd  with  all  calm. 
But  when  they  left  her  to  herself  again, 
Death,  like  a  friend's  voice  from  a  distant  field 
Approaching  thro'  the  darkness,  call'd ;  the  owls 
Wailing  had  power  upon  her,  and  she  mixt 

995  Her  fancies  with  the  sallow-rifted  glooms 
Of  evening,  and  the  moanings  of  the  wind. 

And  in  those  days  she  made  a  little  song. 
And   call'd  her  song    "  The    Song   of   Love   and 

Death," 
And  sang  it :  sweetly  could  she  make  and  sing. 

1000     "  Sweet  is  true  love  tho'  given  in  vain,  in  vain*, 
And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to  pain : 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  L 


98  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

"  Love,  art  thou  sweet  ?  then  bitter  death  must 
be: 
Love,  thou  art  bitter  ;  sweet  is  death  to  me. 
1005  O  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die. 

"  Sweet  love,  that  seems  not  made  to  fade  away. 
Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us  loveless  clay, 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

"  I  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that  could  be ; 
1010 1  needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls  for  me ; 
Call  and  I  follow,  I  follow !  let  me  die." 

High  with  the  last  line  scaled  her  voice,  and  thia^ 
All  in  a  fiery  dawning  wild  with  wind 
That   shook   her   tower,  the  brothers   heard,   and 

thought 
1015 With   shuddering,    "Hark   the   Phantom   of   the 

house 
That  ever  shrieks  before  a  death,"  and  call'd 
The  father,  and  all  three  in  hurry  and  fear 
Ran  to  her,  and  lo  !  the  blood-red  light  of  dawn 
Flared  on  her  face,  she  shrilling,  "  Let  me  die  I  " 

1020      As  when  we  dwell  upon  a  word  we  know, 
Repeating,  till  the  word  we  know  so  well 
Becomes  a  wonder,  and  we  know  not  why. 
So  dwelt  the  father  on  her  face,  and  thought 
"  Is  this  Elaine  ?  "  till  back  the  maiden  fell, 

1025  Then  gave  a  languid  hand  to  each,  and  lay, 
Speaking  a  still  good-morrow  with  her  eyes. 
At  last  she  said,  "  Sweet  brothers,  yesternight 
I  seem'd  a  curious  little  maid  again. 
As  happy  as  when  we  dwelt  among  the  woods, 


i 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE.  99 

'  1030  And  when  ye  used  to  take  me  with  the  flood 
Up  the  great  river  in  the  boatman's  boat. 
Only  ye  would  not  pass  beyond  the  cape 
That  has  the  poplar  on  it :  there  ye  fixt 
Your  limit,  oft  returning  with  the  tide. 

1035  And  yet  I  cried  because  ye  would  not  pass 
Beyond  it,  and  far  up  the  shining  flood 
Until  we  found  the  palace  of  the  King. 
And  yet  ye  would  not ;  but  this  night  I  dream'd 
That  I  was  all  alone  upon  the  flood, 

1040  And  then  I  said,  '  Now  shall  I  have  my  will :  * 
And  there  I  woke,  but  still  the  wish  remained. 
So  let  me  hence  that  I  may  pass  at  last 
Beyond  the  poplar  and  far  up  the  flood, 
Until  I  find  the  palace  of  the  King. 

1045  There  will  I  enter  in  among  them  all, 

And  no  man  there  will  dare  to  mock  at  me ; 
But  there  the  fine  Gawain  will  wonder  at  me, 
And  there  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  muse  at  me ; 
Gawain,  who  bade  a  thousand  farewells  to  me, 

1050  Lancelot,  who  coldly  went,  nor  bade  me  one  : 
And  there  the  King  will  know  me  and  my  love. 
And  there  the  Queen  herself  will  pity  me, 
And  all  the  gentle  court  will  welcome  me, 
And  after  my  long  voyage  I  shall  rest !  " 

1055      "  Peace,"  said  her  father,  "  O  my  child,  ye  seem 
Light-headed,  for  what  force  is  yours  to  go 
•So  far,  being  sick  ?  and  wherefore  would  ye  look 
On  this  proud  fellow  again,  who  scorns  us  all  ?  '* 

Then  the  rough  Torre  began  to  heave  and  move 
1060  And  bluster  into  stormy  sobs  and  say, 
"  I  never  loved  him :  an  I  meet  with  him, 


100  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

I  care  not  howsoever  great  he  be, 
Then  will  I  strike  at  him  and  strike  him  down, 
Give  me  good  fortune,  I  will  strike  him  dead, 
1065  For  this  discomfort  he  hath  done  the  house." 

To  whom  the  gentle  sister  made  reply, 
'•  Fret  not  yourself,  dear  brother,  nor  be  wroth. 
Seeing  it  is  no  more  Sir  Lancelot's  fault 
Not  to  love  me,  than  it  is  mine  to  love 
1070  Him  of  all  men  who  seems  to  me  the  highest." 

" '  Highest  ?  '  "  the    father    answered,    echoing 
"  highest " 
(He  meant  to  break  the  passion  in  her),  "  nay, 
Daughter,  I  know  not  what  you  call  the  highest ; 
But  this  I  know,  for  all  the  people  know  it, 
1075  He  loves  the  Queen,  and  in  an  open  shame : 
And  she  returns  his  love  in  open  shame. 
If  this  be  high,  what  is  it  to  be  low?" 

Then  spake  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat : 
"  Sweet  father,  all  too  faint  and  sick  am  I 

1080  For  anger :  these  are  slanders  :  never  yet 
Was  noble  man  but  made  ignoble  talk. 
He  makes  no  friend  who  never  made  a  foe. 
But  now  it  is  my  glory  to  have  loved 
One  peerless,  without  stain :  so  let  me  pass, 

1085  My  father,  howsoe'er  I  seem  to  you. 

Not  all  unhappy,  having  loved  God's  best 
And  greatest,  tho'  my  love  had  no  return : 
Yet,  seeing  you  desire  your  child  to  live, 
Thanks,  but  you  work  against  your  own  desire ; 

1090  For  if  I  could  believe  the  things  you  say 
I  should  but  die  the  sooner ;  wherefore  cease, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE.  101 

Sweet  father,  and  bid  call  the  ghostly  man 
Hither,  and  let  me  shrive  me  clean,  and  die." 

So  when  the  ghostly  man  had  come  and  gone 

1095  She,  with  a  face  bright  as  for  sin  forgiven, 
Besought  Lavaine  to  write  as  she  devised 
A  letter,  word  for  word ;  and  when  he  ask'd, 
"  Is  it  for  Lancelot,  is  it  for  my  dear  lord  ? 
Then  will  I  bear  it  gladly ;  "  she  replied, 

uoo  "  For  Lancelot  and  the  Queen  and  all  the  world. 
But  I  myself  must  bear  it."     Then  he  wrote 
The  letter  she  devised ;  which  being  writ 
And  folded,  "  O  sweet  father,  tender  and  true, 
Deny  me  not,"  she  said  —  "  ye  never  yet 

1105  Denied  my  fancies  —  this,  however  strange, 
My  latest :  lay  the  letter  in  my  hand 
A  little  %re  I  die,  and  close  the  hand 
Upon  it ;  I  shall  guard  it  even  in  death. 
And  when  the  heat  is  gone  from  out  my  heart, 

1110  Then  take  the  little  bed  on  which  I  died 

For  Lancelot's  love,  and  deck  it  like  the  Queen's 
For  richness,  and  me  also  like  the  Queen 
In  all  I  have  of  rich,  and  lay  me  on  it. 
And  let  there  be  prepared  a  chariot-bier 

1115  To  take  me  to  the  river,  and  a  barge 
Be  ready  on  the  river,  clothed  in  black. 

1092.  The  ghostly  man  =  the  priest,  to  administer  absolu- 
tion. 

1109.  When  the  heat  is  gone  from  out  my  heart.  This 
seems  a  thought  of  poetr}-,  but  Malory  had  already  written  the 
passage  in  prose  :  "  And  when  the  letter  was  written  word  by 
word  like  as  she  devised,  then  she  prayed  her  father  that  she 
might  be  watched  until  she  were  dead,  —  And  while  my  body  is 
hot,  let  this  letter  be  put  in  my  right  hand,  and  my  hand  bound 
fast  with  the  letter  until  that  I  be  cold." 


102  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

I  go  in  state  to  court,  to  meet  the  Queen. 
There  surely  I  shall  speak  for  mine  own  self, 
And  none  of  you  can  speak  for  me  so  well. 
1120  And  therefore  let  our  dumb  old  man  alone 
Go  with  me,  he  can  steer  and  row,  and  he 
Will  guide  me  to  that  palace,  to  the  doors." 

She  ceased  :  her  father  promised ;  whereupon 
She  grew  so  cheerful  that  they  deem'd  her  death 
1125  Was  rather  in  the  fantasy  than  the  blood. 

But  ten  slow  mornings  past,  and  on  the  eleventh 
Her  father  laid  the  letter  in  her  hand. 
And  closed  the  hand  upon  it,  and  she  died. 
So  that  day  there  was  dole  in  Astolat. 

1130      But  when  the  next  sun  brake  from  underground, 
Then,  these  two  brethren  slowly  with  bent  brows 
Accompanying,  the  sad  chariot-bier 
Past  like  a  shadow  thro'  the  field,  that  shone 
Full-summer,  to  that  stream  whereon  the  barge, 

U35  Pall'd  all  its  length  in  blackest  samite,  lay. 
There  sat  the  lifelong  creature  of  the  house. 
Loyal,  the  dumb  old  servitor,  on  deck. 
Winking  his  eyes,  and  twisted  all  his  face. 
So  those  two  brethren  from  the  chariot  took 

1140  And  on  the  black  decks  laid  her  in  her  bed. 
Set  in  her  hand  a  lily,  o'er  her  hung 
The  silken  case  with  braided  blazonings, 
And  kiss'd  her  quiet  brows,  and  saying  to  her 
"  Sister,  farewell  for  ever,"  and  again 

U45 "  Farewell,  sweet  sister,"  parted  all  in  tears. 
Then  rose  the  dumb  old  servitor,  and  the  dead, 
Oar'd  by  the  dumb,  went  upward  with  the  flood  — 
In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE.  103 

The  letter  —  all  her  bright  hair  streaming  down  — 
U50  And  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold 

Drawn  to  her  waist,  and  she  herself  in  white 
All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-featured  face 
Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as  dead. 
But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  tho'  she  smiled. 

U55      That  day  Sir  Lancelot  at  the  palace  craved 
Audience  of  Guinevere,  to  give  at  last 
The  price  of  half  a  realm,  his  costly  gift. 
Hard-won  and  hardly  won  with  bruise  and  blow. 
With  deaths  of  others,  and  almost  his  own, 

U60  The  nine-years-f ought-for  diamonds  :  for  he  saw 
One  of  her  house,  and  sent  him  to  the  Queen 
Bearing  his  wish,  whereto  the  Queen  agreed 
With  such  and  so  unmoved  a  majesty 
She  might  have  seem'd  her  statue,  but  that  he, 

1165  Low-drooping  till  he  wellnigh  kiss'd  her  feet 
For  loyal  awe,  saw  with  a  sidelong  eye 
The  shadow  of  some  piece  of  pointed  lace, 
In  the  Queen's  shadow,  vibrate  on  the  walls, 
And  parted,  laughing  in  his  courtly  heart. 

:i70      All  in  an  oriel  on  the  summer  side. 

Vine-clad,  of  Arthur's  palace  toward  the  stream, 
They  met,  and  Lancelot  kneeling  utter'd,  "  Queen^ 
Lady,  my  liege,  in  whom  I  have  my  joy, 
Take,  what  I  had  not  won  except  for  you, 

U75  These  jewels,  and  make  me  happy,  making  them 
An  qjmlet  for  the  roundest  arm  on  earth, 
Or  necklace  for  a  neck  to  which  the  swan'^ 
Is  tawnier  than  her  cygnet's :  these  are  words : 
Your  beauty  is  your  beauty,  and  I  sin 
1169.  Parted  =  departed. 


104  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

U80  In  speaking,  yet  O  grant  my  worship  of  it 

Words,  as  we  grant  grief  tears.     Such  sin  in  words, 
Perchance,  we  both  can  pardon :  but,  my  Queen, 
I  hear  of  rumors  flying  thro'  your  court. 
Our  bond,  as  not  the  bond  of  man  and  wife, 

1185  Should  haye  in  it  an  absoluter  trust 
To  make  up  that  defect :  let  rumors  be  : 
When  did  not  rumors  fly  ?  these,  as  I  trust 
That  you  trust  me  in  your  own  nobleness, 
I  may  not  well  believe  that  you  believe." 

1190      While  thus  he  spoke,  half  turn'd  away,  the  Queen 
Brake  from  the  vast  oriel-embowering  vine 
Leaf  after  leaf,  and  tore,  and  cast  them  off, 
Till  all  the  place  whereon  she  stood  was  green ; 
Then,  when  he  ceased,  in  one  cold  passive  hand 

1195  Received  at  once  and  laid  aside  the  gems 
There  on  a  table  near  her,  and  replied : 

"  It  may  be,  I  am  quicker  of  belief 
Than  you  believe  me,  Lancelot  of  the  Lake. 
Our  bond  is  not  the  bond  of  man  and  wife, 

1200  This  good  is  in  it,  whatsoe'er  of  ill. 
It  can  be  broken  easier.     I  for  you 
This  many  a  year  have  done  despite  and  wrong 
To  one  whom  ever  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
I  did  acknowledge  nobler.     What  are  these  ? 

1205  Diamonds  for  me  !  they  had  been  thrice  their  wortli 
Being  your  gift,  had  you  not  lost  your  own. 
To  loyal  hearts  the  value  of  all  gifts  ^ 

Must  ♦vary  as  the  giver's.     Not  for  me  ! 
For  her !  for  your  new  fancy.     Only  this 

1210  Grant  me,  I  pray  you :  have  your  joys  apart. 
I  doubt  not  that  however  changed,  you  keep 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE.  105 

So  much  o£  what  is  graceful :  and  myself 
Would  shun  to  break  those  bounds  of  courtesy 
In  which  as  Arthur's  Queen  I  move  and  rule : 

1215  So  cannot  speak  my  mind.     An  end  to  this  ! 
A  strange  one  !  yet  I  take  it  with  Amen. 
So  pray  you,  add  my  diamonds  to  her  pearls ; 
Deck  her  with  these  ;  tell  her,  she  shines  me  down  : 
An  armlet  for  an  arm  to  which  the  Queen's 

1220  Is  haggard,  or  a  necklace  for  a  neck 
O  as  much  fairer — as  a  faith  once  fair 
Was  richer  than  these  diamonds  —  hers  not  mine  — 
.   Nay,  by  the  mother  of  our  Lord  himself, 
Or  hers  or  mine,  mine  now  to  work  my  will  — 

1225  She  shall  not  have  them." 

Saying  which  she  seized, 
And  thro'  the  casement  standing  wide  for  heat, 
Flung  them,  and  down  they  flash'd,  and  smote  the 

stream. 
Then  from  the  smitten  surface  flash'd,  as  it  were, 
Diamonds  to  meet  them,  and  they  past  away. 

1230  Then  while  Sir  Lancelot  leant,  in  half  disdain 
At  love,  life,  all  things,  on  the  window  ledge. 
Close  underneath  his  eyes,  and  right  across 
Where  these  had  fallen,  slowly  past  the  barge 
Whereon  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat 

1235  Lay  smiling,  like  a  star  in  blackest  night. 

But  the  wild  Queen,  who  saw  not,  burst  away 
To  weep  and  w^ail  in  secret ;  and  the  barge. 
On  to  the  palace- doorway  sliding,  paused. 
There  two  stood  arm'd,  and  kept  the  door ;  to  whom, 
1240  All  up  the  marble  stair,  tier  over  tier. 

Were  added  mouths  that  gaped,  and  eyes  that  ask'd 


106  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

**  What  is  it  ?  "  but  that  oarsman's  haggard  face, 
As  hard  and  still  as  is  the  face  that  men 
Shape  to  their  fancy's  eye  from  broken  rocks 

2245  On  some  cliff-side,  appall'd  them,  and  they  said, 
"  He  is  enchanted,  cannot  speak  —  and  she. 
Look  how  she  sleeps  —  the  Fairy  Queen,  so  fair ! 
Yea,  but  how  pale !  what  are  they  ?  flesh  and  blood  ? 
Or  come  to  take  the  King  to  Fairyland  ? 

1250  For  some  do  hold  our  Arthur  cannot  die, 
But  that  he  passes  into  Fairyland." 

While  thus  they  babbled  of  the  King,  the  King 
Came  girt  with  knights :  then  turn'd  the  tongueless 

man 
From  the  half-face  to  the  full  eye,  and  rose 

1255  And  pointed  to  the  damsel,  and  the  doors. 
So  Arthur  bade  the  meek  Sir  Percivale 
And  pure  Sir  Galahad  to  uplift  the  maid ; 
And  reverently  they  bore  her  into  hall. 
Then  came  the  fine  Gawain  and  wonder'd  at  her, 

1260  And  Lancelot  later  came  and  mused  at  her. 
And  last  the  Queen  herself,  and  pitied  her : 
But  Arthur  spied  the  letter  in  her  hand, 
Stoopt,  took,  brake  seal,  and  read  it ;  this  was  all : 

"  Most  noble  lord.  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  Lake, 
1265 1,  sometime  call'd  the  maid  of  Astolat, 
Come,  for  you  left  me  taking  no  farewell, 
Hither,  to  take  my  last  farewell  of  you. 
I  loved  you,  and  my  love  had  no  return, 

1250.  Arthur,  like  Charlemagne  and  Boabdil,  and  Napoleon 
in  later  times,  was  believed  to  be  not  dead,  but  to  be  abiding  in 
some  enchanted  place,  whence  he  should  come  to  free  his  country. 
According  to  Malory  his  epitaph  was, 

"  Hie  jacet  Arthurus  rex  quondam  rexque  futurus." 


b 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE,  107 

And  therefore  my  true  love  has  been  my  death. 
i27o  And  therefore  to  our  Lady  Guinevere, 
And  to  all  other  ladies,  I  make  moan. 
Pray  for  my  soul,  and  yield  me  burial. 
Pray  for  my  soul  thou  too,  Sir  Lancelot, 
As  thou  art  a  knight  peerless." 

Thus  he  read ; 
1275  And  ever  in  the  reading,  lords  and  dames 
Wept,  looking  often  from  his  face  who  read 
To  hers  which  lay  so  silent,  and  at  times, 
So  touch'd  were  they,  half-thinking  that  her  lipSj 
Who  had  devised  the  letter,  moved  again. 

1280      Then  freely  spoke  Sir  Lancelot  to  them  all : 
"  My  lord  liege  Arthur,  and  all  ye  that  hear, 
Know  that  for  this  most  gentle  maiden's  death, 
Right  heavy  am  I ;  for  good  she  was  and  true. 
But  loved  me  with  a  love  beyond  all  love 

1285  In  woman,  whomsoever  I  have  known. 
Yet  to  be  loved  makes  not  to  love  again ; 
Not  at  my  years,  however  it  hold  in  youth. 
I  swear  by  truth  and  knighthood  that  I  gave 
No  cause,  not  willingly,  for  such  a  love : 

^290  To  this  I  call  my  friends  in  testimony, 
Her  brethren,  and  her  father,  who  himself 
Besought  me  to  be  plain  and  blunt,  and  use, 
To  break  her  passion,  some  discourtesy 
Against  my  nature  :  what  I  could,  I  did. 

1295 1  left  her  and  I  bade  her  no  farewell ; 

Tho',  had  I  dreamt  the  damsel  would  have  died, 
I  might  have  put  my  wits  to  some  rough  use, 
And  help'd  her  from  herself." 


108  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

Then  said  the  Queen 
(Sea  was  her  wrath,  yet  working  after  storm) 
1800  "  Ye  might  at  least  have  done  her  so  much  grace, 
Fair  lord,  as   would   have   helped   her  from   her 

death." 
He  raised  his  head,  their  eyes  met  and  hers  fell. 
He  adding : 

"  Queen,  she  would  not  be  content 
Save  that  I  wedded  her,  which  could  not  be. 

1305  Then   might   she    follow  me  thro'  the  world,  she 
ask'd ; 
It  could  not  be.     I  told  her  that  her  love 
Was  but  the  flash  of  youth,  would  darken  down 
To  rise  hereafter  in  a  stiller  flame 
Toward  one  more  worthy  of  her  —  then  would  I, 

1310  More  specially  were  he  she  wedded  poor. 
Estate  them  with  large  land  and  territory 
In  mine  own  realm  beyond  the  narrow  seas, 
To  keep  them  in  all  joyance :  more  than  this 
I  could  not ;  this  she  would  not,  and  she  died." 

1315      He  pausing,  Arthur  answer 'd,  "  O  my  knight, 
It  will  be  to  thy  worship,  as  my  knight. 
And  mine,  as  head  of  all  our  Table  Round,    * 
To  see  that  she  be  buried  worshipfully." 

So  toward  that  shrine  which  then  in  all  the  realm 
1320  Was  richest,  Arthur  leading,  slowly  went 
The  marshall'd  Order  of  their  Table  Round, 

1319.  That  shrine,  presumably  Westminster,  as  Malory's 
narrative  of  the  bringing  of  Elaine  to  the  court  reads:  "And 
so  the  man  steared  the  barget  unto  Westminster,  and  there  he 
rowed  a  great  while  to  and  fro  as  any  espied  it.'* 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE,  109 

And  Lancelot  sat  beyond  his  wont,  to  see 
The  maiden  buried,  not  as  one  unknown, 
Nor  meanly,  but  with  gorgeous  obsequies, 

1325  And  mass,  and  rolling  music,  like  a  queen. 

And  when  the  knights  had  laid  her  comely  head 
Low  in  the  dust  of  half-forgotten  kings, 
Then  Arthur  spake  among  them,  "  Let  her  tomb 
Be  costly,  and  her  image  thereupon, 

1330  And  let  the  shield  of  Lancelot  at  her  feet 
Be  carven,  and  her  lily  in  her  hand. 
And  let  the  story  of  her  dolorous  voyage 
For  all  true  hearts  be  blazon' d  on  her  tomb 
In  letters  gold  and  azure !  "  which  was  wrought 

1335  Thereafter ;  but  when  now  the  lords  and  dames 
And  people,  from  the  high  door  streaming,  brake 
Disorderly,  as  homeward  each,  the  Queen, 
Who  mark'd  Sir  Lancelot  where  he  moved  apart, 
Drew  near,  and  sigh'd  in  passing,  "  Lancelot, 

1340  Forgive  me  ;  mine  was  jealousy  in  love." 
He  answer'd  with  his  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
"  That   is  love's  curse ;  pass  on,   my  Queen,  for- 
given." 
But  Arthur,  who  beheld  his  cloudy  brows, 
Approach'd  him,  and  with  full  affection  said, 

1345      "  Lancelot,  my  Lancelot,  thou  in  whom  I  have 
Most  joy  and  most  affiance,  for  I  know 
What  thou  hast  been  in  battle  by  my  side. 
And  many  a  time  have  watch'd  thee  at  the  tilt 
Strike  down  the  lusty  and  long-practised  knight, 

1350  And  let  the  younger  and  unskill'd  go  by 
To  win  his  honor  and  to  make  his  name. 
And  loved  thy  courtesies  and  thee,  a  man 
Made  to  be  loved  ;  but  now  I  would  to  God, 


110  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

Seeing  the  homeless  trouble  in  thine  eyes, 
1355  Thou  couldst  have  loved  this  maiden,  shaped,  it 
seems, 
By  God  for  thee  alone,  and  from  her  face, 
If  one  may  judge  the  living  by  the  dead, 
Delicately  pure  and  marvellously  fair, 
Who  might  have  brought  thee,  now  a  lonely  man, 
1360  Wifeless  and  heirless,  noble  issue,  sons 
Born  to  the  glory  of  thy  name  and  fame. 
My  knight,  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  Lake." 

Then   answer'd  Lancelot,  "  Fair   she   was,   my 
King, 
Pure,  as  you  ever  wish  your  knights  to  be. 
X365  To  doubt  her  fairness  were  to  want  an  eye. 
To  doubt  her  pureness  were  to  want  a  heart  — 
Yea,  to  be  loved,  if  what  is  worth}^  love 
Could  bind  him,  but  free  love  will  not  be  bound.'* 

"Free   love,  so   bound,  were  freest,"  said   the 
King. 
1370  "  Let  love  be  free ;  free  love  is  for  the  best : 
And,  after  heaven,  on  our  dull  side  of  death, 
What  should  be  best,  if  not  so  pure  a  love 
Clothed  in  so  pure  a  loveliness  ?  yet  thee 
She  fail'd  to  bind,  tho'  being,  as  I  think, 
1375  Unbound  as  yet,  and  gentle,  as  I  know." 

And  Lancelot  answer'd  nothing,  but  he  went, 
And  at  the  inrunning  of  a  little  brook 
Sat  by  the  river  in  a  cove,  and  watch'd 
The  high  reed  wave,  and  lifted  up  his  eyes 
1380  And  saw  the  barge  that  brought  her  moving  down, 
Far-off,  a  blot  upon  the  stream,  and  said 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE.  Ill 

Low  in  himself,  "  Ah  simple  heart  and  sweet, 

Ye  loved  me,  damsel,  surely  v/ith  a  love 

Far  tenderer  than  my  Queen's.    Pray  for  thy  soul? 

1385  Ay,  that  will  I.     Farewell  too  —  now  at  last — 
Farewell,  fair  lily.     '  Jealousy  in  love  ? ' 
Not  rather  dead  love's  harsh  heir,  jealous  pride  ? 
Queen,  if  I  grant  the  jealousy  as  of  love, 
May  not  your  crescent  fear  for  name  and  fame, 

1390  Speak,  as  it  waxes,  of  a  love  that  wanes  ? 
Why  did  the  King  dwell  on  my  name  to  me  ? 
Mine  own  name  shames  me,  seeming  a  reproach, 
Lancelot,  whom  the  Lady  of  the  Lake 
Caught  from  his  mother's  arms  —  the  wondrous  one 

1395  Who  passes  thro'  the  vision  of  the  night  — 
She  chanted  snatches  of  mysterious  hymns 
Heard  on  the  winding  waters,  eve  and  morn. 
She  kiss'd  me  saying,  '  Thou  art  fair,  my  child, 
As  a  king's  son,'  and  often  in  her  arms 

1400  She  bare  me,  pacing  on  the  dusky  mere. 

Would  she  had  drown'd  me  in  it,  where'er  it  be ! 
For  what  am  I  ?  what  profits  me  my  name 
Of  greatest  knight  ?     I  fought  for  it,  and  have  it : 
Pleasure  to  have  it,  none ;  to  lose  it,  pain ; 

1405  Now  grown  a  part  of  me  :  but  what  use  in  it  ? 
To  make  men  worse  by  making  my  sin  known  ? 
Or  sin  seem  less,  the  sinner  seeming  great  ? 
Alas  for  Arthur's  greatest  knight,  a  man 
Not  after  Arthur's  heart !     I  needs  must  break 

1410  These  bonds  that  so  defame  me  :  not  without 
She  wills  it :  would  I,  if  she  will'd  it  ?  nay, 
Who  knows  ?  but  if  I  would  not,  then  may  God, 
I  pray  him,  send  a  sudden  Angel  down 

1389.  Crescent ;  see  1.  446. 

1391.  My  name,  meaning  also  my  fame* 


112  THE  PASSING   OF  ARTHUR. 

To  seize  me  by  the  hair  and  bear  me  far, 
1415  And  fling  me  deep  in  that  forgotten  mere, 
Among  the  tumbled  fragments  of  the  hills." 

So  groaned  Sir  Lancelot  in  remorseful  pain, 
Not  knowing  he  should  die  a  holy  man. 


THE  PASSING  OF  AKTHUR. 

That  story  which  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
First  made  and  latest  left  of  all  the  knights, 
Told,  when  the  man  was  no  more  than  a  voice 
In  the  white  winter  of  his  age,  to  those 
5  With  whom  he  dwelt,  new  faces,  other  minds. 

For  on  their  march  to  westward,  Bedivere, 
Who  slowly  paced  among  the  slumbering  host, 
Heard  in  his  tent  the  moanings  of  the  King : 

"  I  found  Him  in  the  shining  of  the  stars, 
10  I  mark'd  Him  in  the  flowering  of  His  fields,     ♦ 

But  in  His  ways  with  men  I  find  Him  not. 

I  waged  His  wars,  and  now  I  pass  and  die. 

O  me !  for  why  is  all  around  us  here 

As  if  some  lesser  god  had  made  the  world, 
15  But  had  not  force  to  shape  it  as  he  would. 

Till  the  High  God  behold  it  from  beyond, 

The  Passing  of  Arthur,  as  we  have  already  said  in  the 
Introductory  Sketch,  is  identical  with  the  greater  portion  of  the 
"Morte  d' Arthur  "  of  1842,  and  in  its  present  form  first  ap- 
peared as  one  of  the  Idylls  in  the  volume  of  1869.  The  passage 
in  Malory  from  which  its  most  important  part  is  taken  may  also 
be  found  in  the  Introductory  Sketch,  and  is  well  worth  reading 
in  direct  connection  with  the  poem. 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR.  113 

And  enter  it,  and  make  it  beautiful  ? 

Or  else  as  if  the  world  were  wholly  fair, 

But  that  these  eyes  of  men  are  dense  and  dim, 

30  And  have  not  power  to  see  it  as  it  is : 
Perchance,  because  we  see  not  to  the  close ;  — 
For  I,  being  simple,  thought  to  work  His  will. 
And  have  but  stricken  with  the  sword  in  vain ; 
And  all  whereon  I  lean'd  in  wife  and  friend 

25  Is  traitor  to  my  peace,  and  all  my  realm 
Reels  back  into  the  beast,  and  is  no  more. 
My  God,  thou  hast  forgotten  me  in  my  death : 
Nay  —  God  my  Christ  —  I  pass  but  shall  not  die." 

Then,  ere  that  last  weird  battle  in  the  west, 

80  There  came  on  Arthur  sleeping,  Gawain  kill'd 
In  Lancelot's  war,  the  ghost  of  Gawain  blown 
Along  a  wandering  wind,  and  past  his  ear 
Went  shrilling,  "  Hollow,  hollow  all  delight  I 
Hail,  King  I  to-morrow  thou  shalt  pass  away, 

35  Farewell !  there  is  an  isle  of  rest  for  thee.  , 

And  I  am  blown  along  a  wandering  wind, 
And  hollow,  hollow,  hollow  all  delight." 
And  fainter  onward,  like  wild  birds  that  change 
Their  season  in  the  night  and  wail  their  way 

40  From  cloud  to  cloud,  down  the  long  wind  the  dream 
Shrill' d ;  but  in  going  mingled  with  dim  cries 
Far  in  the  moonlit  haze  among  the  hills, 
As  of  some  lonely  city  sack'd  by  night. 
When  all  is  lost,  and  wife  and  child  with  wail 

45  Pass  to  new  lords  I  and  Arthur  woke  and  calFd, 

28.  I  pass  but  shall  not  die  ;  the  old  belief  expressed  in 
other  Idylls.     See  "  Lancelot  and  Elaine,"  11.  1250,  1251,  note. 

31.  The  ghost  of  Gawain ;  in  Malory,  too,  the  king  received 
such  a  warning  as  Gawain  here  gives. 


114  THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 

*'  Who  spake  ?     A  dream.     O  light  upon  the  wind, 
Thine,  Gawain,  was  the  voice  —  are  these  dim  cries 
Thine  ?  or  doth  all  that  haunts  the  waste  and  wild 
Mourn,  knowing  it  will  go  along  with  me  ?  " 

50      This  heard  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  and  spake : 
"  O  me,  my  King,  let  pass  whatever  will, 
Elves,  and  the  harmless  glamour  of  the  field ; 
But  in  their  stead  thy  name  and  glory  cling 
To  all  high  places  like  a  golden  cloud 

55  For  ever :  but  as  yet  thou  shalt  not  pass. 
Light  was  Gawain  in  life,  and  light  in  death 
Is  Gawain,  for  the  ghost  is  as  the  man ; 
And  care  not  thou  for  dreams  from  him,  but  rise  — - 
I  hear  the  steps  of  Modred  in  the  west, 

«o  And  with  him  many  of  thy  people,  and  knights 
Once  thine,  whom  thou  hast  loved,  but  grosser  grown 
Than  heathen,  spitting  at  their  vows  and  thee. 
Right  well  in  heart  they  know  thee  for  the  King. 
Arise,  go  forth  and  conquer  as  of  old." 

65      Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  Far  other  is  this  battle  in  the  west 
Whereto  we  move,  than  when  we  strove  in  youth, 
And  brake  the  petty  kings,  and  fought  with  Rome, 
Or  thrust  the  heathen  from  the  Roman  wall, 

TO  And  shook  him  thro'  the  north.     Ill  doom  is  mine 
To  war  against  my  people  and  my  knights. 
The  king  who  fights  his  people  fights  himseK. 
And   they  my  knights,  who   loved   me   once,  the 

stroke 
That  strikes  them  dead  is  as  my  death  to  me. 

56.  Light  -was  Gawain  in  life  ;  one  side  of  his  character  was 
shown  in  "  Lancelot  and  Elaine." 


I 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR.  115 

7«  Yet  let  us  hence,  and  find  or  feel  a  way 
Thro'  this  blind  haze,  which  ever  since  I  saw 
One  lying  in  the  dust  at  Almesbury, 
Hath  folded  in  the  passes  of  the  world." 

Then  rose  the  King  and  moved  his  host  by  night, 

80  And  ever  push'd  Sir  Modred,  league  by  league, 
Back  to  the  sunset  bound  of  Lyonnesse  — 
A  land  of  old  upheaven  from  the  abyss 
By  fire,  to  sink  into  the  abyss  again ; 
Where  fragments  of  forgotten  peoples  dwelt, 

85  And  the  long  mountains  ended  in  a  coast 
Of  ever-shifting  sand,  and  far  away 
The  phantom  circle  of  a  moaning  sea. 
There  the  pursuer  could  pursue  no  more. 
And  he  that  fled  no  further  fly  the  King ; 

90  And  there,  that  day  when  the  great  light  of  heaven 
Burn'd  at  his  lowest  in  the  rolling  year. 
On  the  waste  sand  by  the  waste  sea  they  closed. 
Nor  ever  yet  had  Arthur  fought  a  fight 
Like  this  last  dim,  weird  battle  of  the  west. 

95  A  deathwhite  mist  slept  over  sand  and  sea : 
Whereof  the  chill,  to  him  who  breathed  it,  drew 
Down  with  his  blood,  till  all  his  heart  was  cold 
With  formless  fear ;  and  ev'n  on  Arthur  fell 
Confusion,  since  he  saw  not  whom  he  fought, 

100  For  friend  and  foe  were  shadows  in  the  mist. 

And  friend  slew  friend  not  knowing  whom  he  slew ; 
And  some  had  visions  out  of  golden  youth, 
And  some  beheld  the  faces  of  old  ghosts 
Look  in  upon  the  battle ;  and  in  the  mist 

83.  To  sink  into  the  abyss  again  ;  a  reference  to  the  belief 
that  Lyonesse,  between  Cornwall  and  the  Scilly  Islands,  is  nov 
submerged. 


116  THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 

m  Was  many  a  noble  deed,  many  a  base, 

And  chance  and  craft  and  strength  in  single  fights, 

And  ever  and  anon  with  host  to  host 

Shocks,  and  the  splintering  spear,  the  hard  mail 

hewn, 
Shield-breakings,  and  the  clash  of  brands,  the  crash 

no  Of  battleaxes  on  shatter'd  helms,  and  shrieks 
After  the  Christ,  of  those  who  falling  down 
Look'd  up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw  the  mist ; 
And  shouts  of  heathen  and  the  traitor  knights, 
Oaths,  insult,  filth,  and  monstrous  blasphemies, 

115  Sweat,  writhings,  anguish,  laboring  of  the  lungs 
In  that  close  mist,  and  cryings  for  the  light, 
Moans  of  the  dying,  and  voices  of  the  dead. 

Last,  as  by  some  one  deathbed  after  wail 
Of  suffering,  silence  follows,  or  thro'  death 

120  Or  deathlike  swoon,  thus  over  all  that  shore, 
Save  for  some  whisper  of  the  seething  seas, 
A  dead  hush  fell ;  but  when  the  dolorous  day 
Grew  drearier  toward  twilight  falling,  came 
A  bitter  wind,  clear  from  the  North,  and  blew 

125  The  mist  aside,  and  with  that  wind  the  tide 
Rose,  and  the  pale  King  glanced  across  the  field 
Of  battle  :  but  no  man  was  moving  there ; 
Nor  any  cry  of  Christian  heard  thereon. 
Nor  yet  of  heathen ;  only  the  wan  wave 

130  Brake  in  among  dead  faces,  to  and  fro 

Swaying  the  helpless  hands,  and  up  and  down 

Tumbling  the  hollow  helmets  of  the  fallen, 

And   shiver'd   brands  that  once  had  fought  with 

Rome, 
And  rolling  far  along  the  gloomy  shores 

185  The  voice  of  days  of  old  and  days  to  be. 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR.  117 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere, 
And  whiter  than  the  mist  that  all  day  long 
Had  held  the  field  of  battle  was  the  King : 

"  Hearest  thou  this  great  voice  that  shakes  the 
world 
140  And  wastes  the  narrow  realm  whereon  we  move, 
And  beats  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead, 
My  dead,  as  tho'  they  had  not  died  for  me  ?  — 
O  Bedivere,  for  on  my  heart  hath  fall'n 
Confusion,  till  I  know  not  what  I  am, 
145  Nor  whence  I  am,  nor  whether  I  be  King. 
Behold,  I  seem  but  King  among  the  dead." 

Then  spake  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere :  "  My  King, 
King  everywhere !  and  so  the  dead  have  kings. 
There  also  will  I  worship  thee  as  King. 
150  Yet  still  thy  life  is  whole,  and  still  I  live 

Who  love  thee  ;  but  who  hates  thee,  he  that  brought 
The  heathen  back  among  us,  yonder  stands, 
Modred,  unharm'd,  the  traitor  of  thine  house." 

Then  spake  the  King :  "  My  house  had  been  my 
doom, 
155  But  call  not  thou  this  traitor  of  my  house 
Who  hath  but  dwelt  beneath  one  roof  with  me. 
My  house  are  rather  they  who  sware  my  vows, 
Yea,  even  while  they  brake  them,  own'd  me  King. 
And  well  for  thee,  saying  in  my  dark  hour, 
160  When  all  the  purport  of  my  throne  hath  fail'd, 
That  quick  or  dead  thou  boldest  me  for  King. 
King  am  I,  whatsoever  be  their  cry  ; 
And  one  last  act  of  kinghood  shalt  thou  see 
148.  So,  in  the  best  familiar  sense  of  provided  that,  if. 


118  THE  PASSING   OF  ARTHUR. 

Yet,  ere  I  pass."     And  uttering  this  the  King 
165  Made  at  the  man :  then  Modred  smote  his  liege 
Hard  on  that  helm  which  many  a  heathen  sword 
Had  beaten  thin  ;  while  Arthur  at  one  blow, 
Striking  the  last  stroke  with  Excalibur, 
Slew  him,  and  all  but  slain  himself,  he  fell. 

170      So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roU'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea ; 
Until  King  Arthur's  Table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fall'n  in  Lyonnesse  about  their  lord. 
King   Arthur.      Then,    because    his    wound    was 
deep, 

175  The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land : 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 

180  Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  f uU. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such  a  sleep 

185  They  sleep  —  the  men  I  loved.     I  think  that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds. 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 

190 1  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made,  — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 

168.  Excalibur  ;  see  "  Gareth  and  Lynette,"  1.  Q&,  note. 
170.  With  this  line,  following  the  introduction  called  •*  The 
Epic,"  Tennyson's  early  poem  the  "  Morte  d'Arthur  "  began. 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR.  119 

To  rule  once  more ;  but,  let  what  will  be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  mom. 

195  Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 

Which  was  my  pride :  for  thou  rememberest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 

200  Holding  the  sword  —  and  how  I  row'd  across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king ; 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known : 
But  now  delay  not :  take  Excalibur, 

205  And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere : 

Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring  me  word.'' 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  It  is  not  meet.  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus, 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm  — 
210  A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man : 
Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full. 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he  stept, 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
215  Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men. 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.      He,  stepping 
down 

195.  It  is  from  this  point  that  the  narrative  of  Malory  is 
most  closely  followed. 

197.  An  arm  Rose  up ;  as  related  in  Malory,  i.,  xxiii. 

205.  Him,  as  if  Arthur  thought  of  the  sword  as  a  personal 
comrade. 


120  THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 

By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock. 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

220      There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon, 
Brightening  the  sldrts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt : 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  sparks, 

225  Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewellery.     He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind, 
In  act  to  throw :  but  at  the  last  it  seem'd 

S30  Better  to  leave  Excalibui;  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags. 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere : 
as  "  Hast  thou  perf  orm'd  my  mission  which  I  gave  ? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast  heard  ? '' 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

2M      To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pale : 
"  Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy  name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand, 

245  Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 

241.  Thy  name  ;  this  may  be  taken  for  fame  or  reputation, 
as  before  in  the  Idylls,  or  possibly  as  referring  to  the  -vere  of  his 
name,  meaning  true. 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR.  121 

This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again, 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

250      Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere, 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix'd  in  thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 

255  His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud : 

"  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 
Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  from  the  earth. 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men 

260  What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  done? 
What  harm,  undone  ?     Deep  harm  to  disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 

265  The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt  ?     But  were  this  kept. 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings, 

270  Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms. 
Saying,  '  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 

275  So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame  were  lost.'' 


122  THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR, 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
280  And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily : 
"  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast  heard ?'* 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
285  And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in  wrath  i 
"  Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted !     Woe  is  me  I 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 

290  Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 

That  bow'd  the  will.     I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights, 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all. 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt  ; 

295  Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence  % 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 

MO  I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush  beds,  and  clutch'd  the  sword, 
And    strongly  wheel'd   and   threw  it.     The   great 
brand 
305  Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon, 
297.  For,  since. 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR,  123 

And  flasTiing  round  and  round,  and  whirl'd  in  an 

arch, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  Northern  Sea. 

310  So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur: 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 

as  And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  Kjng. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker  breath  t 
"  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen  ?  '* 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
m  "  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gem& 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw. 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die. 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
S25  Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him  J 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere.'* 

306.  "Whirl'd  in  an  arch ;  in  aad  an  must  almost  be  con- 
tracted in  reading  into  one  syllable.  The  line,  like  many  others 
in  the  Idylls,  departs  from  structural  exactness,  in  order  to 
make  an  effect  in  sound  corresponding  with  the  sense. 

307.  The  northern  morn  =rthe  aurora  borealis. 

308.  "Where  the  moving  isles  of  winter,  etc.  =  where  the 
floes  of  ice  crash  together  by  night  in  the  Northern  Sea. 


124  THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 

m     And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breatHng  hard  5 
"  My  end  draws  nigh ;  't  is  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin ;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 

835      So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears, 

m  And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words ; 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee. 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands. 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk'd.  King  Arthur  panted  hard, 

8*5  Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 

When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sigh'd  the  King, 
Muttering   and   murmuring   at   his    ear,    "  Quickp 

quick  I 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die.'* 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge, 

850  Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he  walk'd, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.     His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 

855  And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 

The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him,  as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels  — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo !  the  level  lake, 

880  And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR.  125 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them  ;  and  descending  tJtiey  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms, 

365  Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream  —  by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold  :  and  from  them 

rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 

370  All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes. 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "  Place  me  in  the  barge." 
So  to  the   barge   they  came.     There   those   three 

Queens 
Put  forth   their  hands,  and  took   the   King,  and 

wept. 
S75  But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap. 
And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque,  and  chafed  his 

hands, 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud. 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  a  brow 
330  Striped  with  dark  blood :  for  all  his  face  was  white 
And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither'd  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd  with  drops 
Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls  — 
385  That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 

High   from   the   dais-throne — were   parch'd   with 

dust ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed  his  lips. 


126  THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 

So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  tlie  King ; 
390  Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
395  "  Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go  ? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
"When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance. 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
400  Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  m^^rrh. 
But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
105  And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years, 
'  Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds." 

And  slowly  answer'd  Arthur  from  the  barge : 
"  The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
410  Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 
Comfort  thyself :  what  comfort  is  in  me  ? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure !  but  thou, 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
415  Pray  for  my  soul.     More  things  are  wrought  by 
prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore,  let  thy 

voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 


1 


THE  PASSING   OF  ARTHUR.  127 

For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 

420  If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 
Both  for  themselves    and    those   who    call  them 

friend  ? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 
But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 

425  With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed  I  go 

(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt)  — 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 

430  Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard  lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  summer  sea. 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound." 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted  swan 

435  That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death. 

Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 

440  And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

But  when  that  moan  had  past  for  evermore, 
The  stillness  of  the  dead  world's  winter  dawn 
Amazed  him,  and  he  groan'd,  "  The  King  is  gone." 
And  therewithal  came  on  him  the  weird  rhyme, 
445  "  From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep  he  goes." 

434.  Like   some   full-breasted   s"V7an ;    referring    to    the 
familiar,  if  unscientific,  belief  that  swans  sing  before  they  die. 
440.  With  this  line  the  "  Morte  d'  Arthur  "  ended. 
445.  See  "The  Commg  of  Arthur,"  1.  410. 


128  THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 

Whereat  he  slowly  turn'd  and  slowly  clomb 
The  last  hard  footstep  of  that  iron  crag  ; 
Thence  mark'd  the  black  hull  moving  yet,  and  cried, 
"  He  passes  to  be  King  among  the  dead, 

350  And  after  healing  of  his  grievous  wound 

He  comes  again  ;  but  —  if  he  come  no  more  ^ 
O  me,  be  yon  dark  Queens  in  yon  black  boat. 
Who   shriek'd   and   wail'd,  the  three  whereat  we 

gazed 
On  that  high  day,  when,  clothed  with  living  light, 

155  They  stood  before  his  throne  in  silence,  friends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his  need  ?  " 

Then  from  the  dawn  it  seem'd  there  came,  but 
faint. 
As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world, 
Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a  great  cry, 
460  Sounds,  as  if  some  fair  city  were  one  voice 
Around  a  king  returning  from  his  wars. 

Thereat  once  more  he  moved  about,  and  clomb 
Ev'n  to  the  highest  he  could  climb,  and  saw. 
Straining  his  eyes  beneath  an  arch  of  hand, 
465  Or  thought  he  saw,  the  speck  that  bare  the  King, 
Down  that  long  water  opening  on  the  deep 
Somewhere  far  off,  pass  on  and  on,  and  go 
From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light. 
And  the  new  sun  rose  bringing  the  new  year. 

453.  The  three  whereat  we  gazed  :  see  "  The  Comiiig  of 
Arthur,"  11.  275-278, 


Xia)t  Hit)ets?iDe  ^literature  Series? 


FAREWELL  ADDRESS   TO  THE 
PEOPLE  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON 


WITH  INTRODUCTION 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

Boston  :  4  Park  Street ;  New  York  ;  85  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  378-388  Wabash  Avenue 


COPYRIGHT   1887   BY   HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN   &    CO. 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


GEOKGE  WASHINGTON 

1732-1799 

The  story  of  the  life  of  George  Washington  is  the  proud 
•possession  of  every  American  boy.  All  the  outward  events 
of  that  wonderful  career  the  young  hero-worshipper  can 
recount,  from  the  breaking-in  of  the  pet  colt  somewhere 
about  1738  on  the  lawn  of  the  Virginian  plantation  to  the 
taking  of  the  oath  of  office  as  President  in  New  York  in 
1789.  He  knows  by  heart  the  exciting  adventures  of  the 
young  Washington  during  his  three  years'  survey  of  the 
Yirginian  wilderness ;  he  admires  the  Major  Washington 
who  so  gallantly  bore  the  commission  of  Governor  Din- 
widdle to  warn  the  French  off  the  Ohio  lands  and  afterward 
saved  the  army  of  the  obstinate  Braddock  from  total  defeat 
in  the  fight  for  Fort  Duquesne.  He  knows  how  his  hero  re- 
sented the  Stamp  Act,  and  stood  unflinchingly  for  justice 
in  the  Continental  Congress  ;  how  he  was  elected  Comman- 
der-in-Chief of  the  army  and  came  to  Cambridge  to  receive 
its  leadership  under  the  elm  which  still  bears  his  name.  He 
sees  Washington,  and  little  else,  in  every  event  of  the  war 
which  followed :  his  strategy  in  compelling  the  British  to 
evacuate  Boston  ;  his  dignity  in  that  enforced  retreat  across 
New  Jersey ;  his  genius  in  the  Christmas  victory  at  Trenton ; 
his  control  in  holding  together  his  unpaid,  half-fed  soldiers  ; 
his  patience  in  enduring  criticism  of  his  "  Fabian  "  policy ; 
his  fortitude  in  braving  the  winter  at  Valley  Forge  ;  his  joy 
in  the  loyalty  of  Lafayette  ;  his  grief  at  the  faithlessness  of 
Arnold;  his  righteous  indignation  at  the  general  who  lost 
for  him  the  battle  of  Monmouth,  —  all  these  reaching  a 
glorious  climax  in  his  magnificent  dash  across  country  in 
October  of  1781  to  wedge  in  Cornwallis  at  Yorktown  and 


2  GEORGE    WASHINGTON 

force  him  to  surrender.  Through  the  quieter  years  that 
followed  Washington  is  still  the  boy's  hero,  —  as  he  presides 
over  the  convention  of  1787  and  helps  draw  up  the  consti< 
tution  ;  as  he  enters  upon  the  presidency ;  and  as,  about  to 
assume  again  reluctant  command  of  the  army  should  war 
with  France  break  out,  he  dies  suddenly  at  his  home  at 
Mount  Vernon  in  1799. 

But  this  military  and  civil  career,  thrilling  as  it  is  to  the 
American  boy,  shows  by  no  means  the  whole  of  the  great- 
ness of  Washington.  It  is  the  man  who  thought  and  wrote 
who  is  of  particular  interest  when  the  more  mature  student 
approaches  one  of  his  addresses  as  a  piece  of  literature.  Like 
most  heroes  of  action,  Washington  was  a  man  of  few  words  ; 
nor  did  he  write  much  in  his  life  outside  the  methodical 
keeping  of  diaries  and  accounts,  the  penning  of  ceremonious 
letters,  and  the  composition  of  such  speeches  as  his  part  in 
public  affairs  demanded  of  him.  The  style  of  these  is  uni- 
formly concise,  dignified,  formal ;  and  to  read  them  is  to 
enjoy  a  prose  whose  beauty  lies  in  clearness,  precision,  and 
earnestness,  rather  than  in  rhetorical  ornament  or  imagery. 

The  first  literary  production  of  the  boy  Washington  comes 
down  to  us  in  a  letter  to  his  playmate,  Richard  Henry  Lee : 

"  G.  W.'s  compliments  to  R.  H.  L. 
And  likes  his  book  full  well. 
Henceforth  will  count  him  his  friend, 
And  hopes  many  happy  days  he  may  spend." 

There  may  be  little  there  to  herald  a  coming  writer,  but 
the  four  lines  are  eloquent  of  painstaking  effort.  No  doubt 
the  verse,  according  to  the  boy's  habits,  was  carefully  cor- 
rected and  copied  before  it  was  sent.  The  exercise  books 
of  his  early  school  days,  full  of  business  forms  of  all  kinds 
copied  in  a  bold,  firm  hand  bear  witness  to  great  exactness 
and  orderliness.  One  of  these  contains  his  famous  list  of  a 
hundred  and  ten  Rules  of  Civility  and  Decent  Behavior  in 
Company  and  Conversation.  They  are  stiff  little  maxims 
such  as,  *'  Speak  not  evil  of  the  absent,  for  it  is  unjust," 


i 


GEORGE    WASHINGTON  3 

and  "  Labor  to  keep  alive  in  your  breast  that  little  spark 
of  celestial  fire  called  conscience;"  *but  a  deal  of  serious 
thought  lies  behind  their  meagre  expression. 

The  next  piece  of  writing  from  Washington's  pen  is  the 
journal  kept  during  his  expedition  to  the  Ohio,  —  an  orderly* 
circumstantial  report  written  for  the  sake  of  rendering  a 
faithful  account  of  his  stewardship.  Without  color  or  gloss, 
it  fascinates  by  its  very  directness.  Of  one  of  the  most  ex- 
citing incidents  of  the  enterprise  he  writes  simply :  "  There 
was  no  way  for  getting  over  [the  river]  but  on  a  raft,  which 
we  set  about,  with  but  one  poor  hatchet,  and  finished  just 
after  sun-setting.  This  was  a  whole  day's  work ;  we  next  got 
it  launched,  then  went  on  board  of  it,  and  set  off ;  but  before 
we  were  half-way  over  we  were  jammed  in  the  ice,  in  such 
a  manner  that  we  expected  every  moment  our  raft  to  sink, 
and  ourselves  to  perish.  I  put  out  my  steering-pole  to  try  to 
stop  the  raft,  that  the  ice  might  pass  by,  when  the  rapidity  of 
the  stream  threw  it  with  so  much  violence  against  the  pole 
that  it  jerked  me  out  into  ten  feet  water ;  but  I  fortunately 
saved  myself  by  catching  hold  of  one  of  the  raft-logs.  Not- 
withstanding all  our  efforts,  we  could  not  get  to  either  shore, 
but  were  obliged,  as  we  were  near  an  island,  to  quit  our  raft 
and  make  to  it."  There  is  no  personal  comment  in  the  whole 
narrative  more  than  that  implied  in  the  words  poor  and  for- 
tunately ;  and  yet  it  appeals  to  us  as  does  the  simplicity  and 
directness  of  Robinson  Crusoe.  Terse  almost  to  the  laugh- 
ing point  is  his  journal's  record  of  a  visit  to  the  Indian  queen, 
Aliquippa :  "  I  made  her  a  present  of  a  watch-coat  and  a  bot- 
tle of  rum,  which  latter  was  thought  much  the  better  present 
of  the  two."  What  material  for  a  romancer  like  our  old  his- 
torian John  Smith !  The  journal  ends :  "  On  the  11th.  I  got 
to  Belvoir  where  I  stopped  one  day  to  get  the  necessary 
rest ;  and  then  set  out  and  arrived  in  Williamsburg  the 
16th.,  where  I  waited  upon  his  Honor  the  Governor  with 
the  letter  I  had  brought  from  the  French  commandant,  and 
to  give  an  account  of  the  success  of  my  proceedings.     This 


4  GEORGE    WASHINGTON 

I  beg  leave  to  do  by  offering  the  foregoing  narrative,  as  it 
contains  the  most  remarkable  occurrences  which  happened 
in  my  journey.  I  hope  what  has  been  said  will  be  sufficient 
to  make  your  Honor  satisfied  with  my  conduct."  Sufficient 
it  surely  ought  to  have  been,  for  the  man  who  wrote  so 
straightforward  an  account  must  have  marched  straight 
forward  to  the  accomplishment  of  his  work. 

A  little  more  self-conscious  and  ceremonious,  but  none 
the  less  frank,  is  the  style  of  his  letter  in  answer  to  General 
Braddock's  invitation  to  join  him  as  aid-de-camp.  The 
letter  is  addressed  to  Braddock's  secretary,  and  begins  as 
follows : 

"Sir: 

I  was  not  favored  with  your  polite  letter  of  the 
2nd.  instant  until  yesterday  ;  acquainting  me  with  the  notice 
his  Excellency,  General  Braddock,  is  pleased  to  honor  me 
with,  by  kindly  inviting  me  to  become  one  of  his  family  the 
ensuing  campaign.  It  is  true,  sir,  I  have,  ever  since  I  de- 
clined my  late  command,  expressed  an  inclination  to  serve 
in  this  campaign  as  a  volunteer ;  and  this  inclination  is  not 
a  little  increased,  since  it  is  likely  to  be  conducted  by  a  gen- 
tleman of  the  general's  experience.  But,  besides  this,  and 
the  laudable  desire  I  may  have  to  serve  with  my  best  abili- 
ties my  king  and  my  country,  I  must  be  ingenuous  enough 
to  confess  that  I  am  not  a  little  biased  by  selfish  considera- 
tions. To  explain,  sir,  I  wish  earnestly  to  attain  some 
knowledge  in  the  military  profession,  and  believing  a  more 
favorable  opportunity  cannot  offer  than  to  serve  under  a 
gentleman  of  General  Braddock's  abilities  and  experience, 
it  does,  you  may  reasonably  suppose,  not  a  little  contribute 
to  influence  my  choice." 

Washington's  only  comment  later  on  Braddock's  insistence 
upon  using  British  military  tactics  in  an  American  wilder- 
ness full  of  Indians  —  a  subject  worthy  of  a  philippic !  — 
was  this :  "  There  has  been  vile  management  in  regard  to 
the  horses."     The  same  restraint  characterizes   the  letter 


GEORGE    WASHINGTON  5 

which  he  wrote  to  his  mother  on  the  subject  of  their  defeat ; 
and  yet  his  two  pages  are  infinitely  more  graphic  than  any 
ten-page  account  in  the  histories,  eloquent  as  those  are  upon 
one  topic  on  which  he  maintains  silence,  —  the  good  judg- 
ment of  Washington. 

Washington's  power  in  argument  first  shows  itself  in  his 
letter  to  Mr.  Fairfax  concerning  the  Stamp  Act.  The  whole 
composition  reads  as  convincingly  as  the  most  brilliant  pas- 
sages in  Burke,  and  yet  there  is  nothing  more  adorned  than 
this :  "  I  think  the  Parliament  of  Great  Britain  have  no 
more  right  to  put  their  hands  into  my  pockets,  without  my 
consent,  than  I  have  to  put  my  hands  into  yours ;  and  this 
being  already  urged  to  them  in  a  firm  but  decent  manner, 
by  all  the  colonies,  what  reason  is  there  to  expect  anything 
from  their  justice  ?  "  Fact  and  experience  were  eloquent  to 
Washington  without  the  aid  of  rhetoric.  His  acceptance  of 
his  appointment  to  the  head  of  the  army  is  full  of  the 
modesty  and  loyalty  that  marked  all  that  he  wrote.  "  Mr. 
President :  Though  I  am  truly  sensible  of  the  high  honor  done 
me,  in  this  appointment,  yet  I  feel  great  distress  from  a  con- 
ciousness  that  my  abilities  and  military  experience  may  not 
be  equal  to  the  extensive  and  important  trust.  However,  as 
the  Congress  desire  it,  I  will  enter  upon  the  momentous  duty, 
and  exert  every  power  I  possess  in  their  service,  and  for  the 
support  of  the  glorious  cause.  .  .  But  I  beg  it  may  be  re- 
membered by  every  gentleman  in  this  room  that  I,  this  day, 
declare  with  the  utmost  sincerity,  I  do  not  think  myself  equal 
to  the  command  I  am  honored  with." 

As  soon  as  Washington  had  taken  command  of  the  army 
he  began  a  series  of  letters  to  Congress  which  continued 
throughout  the  war.  These  state  all  his  plans  and  move- 
ments with  rigid  exactness.  If  anything  was  needed  he 
asked  for  it  simply :  "  We  labor  under  great  disadvantages 
for  want  of  tents,"  or  "  I  find  myself  already  much  embar- 
rassed for  want  of  a  military  chest."  But  there  are  no  long 
petitions  or  complaints :  his  business  was  to  act  for  the  inter- 


6  GEORGE    WASHINGTON 

ests  of  the  country  and  to  report  his  movements  to  Congress 
without  superfluous  personal  comment  or  criticism,  much  as 
the  conditions  would  have  justified  him  in  making  them.  It 
took  a  Valley  Forge  to  strike  a  spark  of  fire  into  Washing- 
ton's rhetoric.  His  indignation  on  behalf  of  his  men  made 
him  eloquently  ironical  for  the  first  time.  "  We  find  gentle- 
men, without  knowing  whether  the  army  was  really  going 
into  winter  quarters  or  not,  reprobating  the  measure  as 
much  as  if  they  thought  the  soldiers  were  made  of  stocks 
and  stones,  and  equally  insensible  of  frost  and  sorrow ;  and 
moreover  as  if  they  conceived  it  easily  practicable  for  an  in- 
ferior army,  under  the  disadvantages  I  have  described  ours 
to  be,  which  are  by  no  means  exaggerated,  to  confuse  a 
superior  one,  in  all  respects  well  appointed  and  provided  for 
a  winter's  campaign,  within  the  city  of  Philadelphia.  .  .  . 
I  can  assure  these  gentlemen,  that  it  is  a  much  easier  and 
less  distressing  thing  to  draw  remonstrances  in  a  comfortable 
room  by  a  good  fireside  than  to  occupy  a  cold  bleak  hill, 
and  sleep  under  frost  and  snow,  without  clothes  or  blankets. 
However,  although  they  seem  to  have  little  feeling  for  the 
naked  and  distressed  soldiers,  I  feel  superabundantly  for 
them,  and  from  my  soul  I  pity  those  miseries,  which  it  is 
neither  in  my  power  to  relieve  or  prevent."  In  1783  Wash- 
ington made  his  famous  farewell  address  to  the  army,  a 
speech  so  full  of  sincere  emotion  that  it  could  not  but  be 
eloquent,  although  he  who  spoke  it,  falteringly,  was  no 
practiced  orator.  A  note  of  impassioned  exhortation  creeps 
in  here  for  the  first  time,  a  device  which  an  ambitious  young 
orator  might  assume,  but  which  Washington  could  come  by 
only  honestly  through  experience  and  suffering  with  his 
men. 

Even  so  brief  a  survey  as  this  gives  us  the  impression  that 
never  was  the  saying  that  "the  style  is  the  man"  more 
true  of  any  one  than  of  Washington.  The  power  of  ex- 
pression he  would  never  have  cultivated  for  artistic  ends; 
it  developed  in  him,  step  by  step,  only  as  his  experience 


GEORGE    WASHINGTON  7 

demanded  it  for  practical  use.  Where  a  record  of  an  expedi- 
tion was  necessary,  he  wrote  with  plain  accuracy  ;  where 
national  events  became  more  complex  and  demanded  careful 
thought  and  reasoning,  his  letters  to  Congress  became  more 
philosophical ;  where  an  appeal  must  be  made  for  his  soldiers, 
he  could  be  impassioned  ;  and  when  the  time  came  for  him 
to  disband  his  army  he  had  so  found  himself  through  years 
of  experience  that  he  spoke  with  a  genuine  eloquence.  The 
record  reads  like  that  of  a  man  made  an  orator  almost  in  spite 
of  himself. 

In  the  Farewell  Address  of  1796  we  have  the  full  cul- 
mination of  all  these  powers.  It  was  an  occasion  that  de- 
manded much  of  Washington,  and  perhaps  the  speech  bears 
more  than  his  usual  consciousness  of  composition.  But  it 
does  not  lose  in  a  single  sentence  the  ingenuousness  of  that 
boyish  journal  of  1753 ;  time  has  only  added  to  it  the  trained 
intellect,  the  practiced  logic,  the  experienced  judgment,  the 
mellowed  sympathy,  and  the  temperate  emotion  that  must  lie 
at  the  foundation  of  all  good  and  great  eloquence.  These, 
combined  with  Washington's  inborn  sense  of  elegance  and 
dignity  in  form  and  expression,  make  the  Farewell  Ad- 
dress a  piece  of  rare,  unpretentious  oratory  that  deserves 
to  be  known  by  heart  by  every  student  of  American  liter- 
ature. 

Mr.  Henry  Cabot  Lodge,  in  his  Life  of  Washington 
(American  Statesmen  Series)  y  writes:  "  In  September,  1796, 
Washington  published  his  farewell  address,  and  no  man  ever 
left  a  nobler  political  testament.  Through  much  tribulation 
he  had  done  his  great  part  in  establishing  the  government 
of  the  Union,  which  might  have  come  to  naught  without  his 
commanding  influence.  .  .  .  Now  from  the  heights  of  great 
achievement  he  turned  to  say  farewell  to  the  people  whom 
he  so  much  loved,  and  whom  he  had  so  greatly  served. 
Every  word  was  instinct  with  the  purest  and  wisest  patriot- 
ism. .  .  .  His  admonitions  were  received  by  the  people  at 
large  with  profound  respect,  and  sank  deep  into  the  public 


8  GEORGE    WASHINGTON 

mind.  As  the  generations  have  come  and  gone,  the  fare- 
well address  has  grown  dearer  to  the  hearts  of  the  people, 
and  the  children  and  the  children's  children  of  those  to 
whom  it  was  addressed  have  turned  to  it  in  all  times  and 
known  that  there  was  no  room  for  error  in  following  its 
counsel." 


FAREWELL  ADDRESS  TO  THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  UNITED 

STATES. 

Washington  was  chosen  first  President  of  the  United  States, 
and  at  the  end  of  his  term  he  was  again  chosen.  When  his 
second  term  drew  near  its  close,  he  refused  to  be  a  candidate 
for  reelection,  and  six  months  before  he  was  to  leave  the  Presi- 
dent's chair  he  issued  the  following  farewell  address,  September 
17,  1796. 

Friends  and  Fellow-Citizens  :  The  period  for 
a  new  election  of  a  citizen,  to  administer  the  execu- 
tive government  of  the  United  States,  being  not  far 
distant,  and  the  time  actually  arrived  when  your 
thoughts  must  be  employed  in  designating  the  person 
who  is  to  be  clothed  with  that  important  trust,  it  ap- 
pears to  me  proper,  especially  as  it  may  conduce  to  a 
more  distinct  expression  of  the  public  voice,  that  I 
should  now  apprise  you  of  the  resolution  I  have 
formed,  to  decline  being  considered  among  the  num- 
ber of  those  out  of  whom  a  choice  is  to  be  made. 

I  beg  you,  at  the  same  time,  to  do  me  the  justice  to 
be  assured,  that  this  resolution  has  not  been  taken 
without  a  strict  regard  to  all  the  considerations  apper- 
taining to  the  relation  which  binds  a  dutiful  citizen  to 
his  country ;  and  that,  in  withdrawing  the  tender  of 
service,  which  silence  in  my  situation  might  imply,  I 
am  influenced  by  no  diminution  of  zeal  for  your  fu- 
ture interest ;  no  deficiency  of  grateful  respect  for 
your  past  kindness  ;  but  am  supported  by  a  full  con- 
viction that  the  step  is  compatible  with  both. 

The  acceptance  of,  and  continuance  hitherto  in,  the 
office  to  which  your  suffrages  have  twice  called  me, 


84  GEORGE  WASHINGTON, 

iiave  been  a  uniform  sacrii&ce  of  inclination  to  the 
opinion  of  duty,  and  to  a  deference  for  what  appeared 
to  be  your  desire.  I  constantly  hoped  that  it  would 
have  been  much  earlier  in  my  power,  consistently  with 
motives  which  I  was  not  at  liberty  to  disregard,  to  re- 
turn to  that  retirement  from  which  I  had  been  reluc-- 
tantly  drawn.  The  strength  of  my  inclination  to  dc 
this,  previous  to  the  last  election,  had  even  led  to  the 
preparation  of  an  address  to  declare  it  to  you ;  but 
mature  reflection  on  the  then  perplexed  and  critical 
posture  of  our  affairs  with  foreign  nations,  and  the 
unanimous  advice  of  persons  entitled  to  my  confidence, 
impelled  me  to  abandon  the  idea. 

I  rejoice  that  the  state  of  your  concerns,  external  as 
well  as  internal,  no  longer  renders  the  pursuit  of  incli- 
nation incompatible  with  the  sentiment  of  duty  or 
propriety ;  and  am  persuaded,  whatever  partiality  may 
be  retained  for  my  services,  that,  in  the  present  cir^ 
cumstances  of  our  country,  you  wUl  not  disapprove 
my  determination  to  retire. 

The  impressions  with  which  I  first  undertook  the 
arduous  trust  were  explained  on  the  proper  occasion. 
In  the  discharge  of  this  trust  I  will  only  say  that  I 
have  with  good  intentions  contributed  toward  the  or- 
ganization and  administration  of  the  government  the 
best  exertions  of  which  a  very  fallible  judgment  was 
capable.  Not  unconscious  in  the  outset  of  the  inferi- 
ority of  my  qualifications,  experience  in  my  own  eyes, 
perhaps  still  more  in  the  eyes  of  others,  has  strength- 
ened the  motives  to  diffidence  of  myself ;  and  every 
day  the  increasing  weight  of  years  admonishes  me 
more  and  more  that  the  shade  of  retirement  is  as 
necessary  to  me  as  it  will  be  welcome.  Satisfied  that, 
if  any  circumstances  have  given  peculiar  value  to  my 


FAREWELL   ADDRESS   TO   THE  PEOPLE.       85 

services,  they  were  temporary,  I  have  the  consolation 
to  believe  that,  while  choice  and  prudence  invite  me  to 
quit  the  political  scene,  patriotism  does  not  forbid  it. 

In  lookinof  forward  to  the  moment  which  is  in- 
tended  to  terminate  the  career  of  my  public  life,  my 
feelings  do  not  permit  me  to  suspend  the  deep  ao^ 
knowledgment  of  that  debt  of  gratitude  which  I  owe 
to  my  beloved  country  for  the  many  honors  it  has  con- 
ferred upon  me ;  still  more  for  the  steadfast  confi- 
dence with  which  it  has  supported  me ;  and  for  the 
opportunities  I  have  thence  enjoyed  of  manifesting 
my  inviolable  attachment  by  services  faithful  and  per- 
severing, though  in  usefulness  unequal  to  my  zeal.  If 
benefits  have  resulted  to  our  country  from  these  ser 
vices,  let  it  always  be  remembered  to  your  praise,  and 
as  an  instructive  example  in  our  annals,  that  under 
circumstances  in  which  the  passions,  agitated  in  every 
direction,  were  liable  to  mislead,  amidst  appearances 
sometimes  dubious,  vicissitudes  of  fortune  often  dis- 
couraging, in  situations  in  which  not  unfrequently 
want  of  success  has  countenanced  the  spirit  of  criti- 
cism, the  constancy  of  your  support  was  the  essential 
prop  of  the  efforts,  and  a  guaranty  of  the  plans  by 
which  they  were  effected.  Profoundly  penetrated  with 
this  idea,  I  shall  carry  it  with  me  to  my  grave,  as  a 
strong  incitement  to  unceasing  vows  that  Heaven  may 
continue  to  you  the  choicest  tokens  of  its  beneficence  5 
that  your  union  and  brotherly  affection  may  be  per- 
petual ;  that  the  free  constitution,  which  is  the  work 
of  your  hands,  may  be  sacredly  maintained  ;  that  its 
administration  in  every  department  may  be  stamped 
with  wisdom  and  virtue ;  that,  in  fine,  the  happiness 
of  the  people  of  these  States,  under  the  auspices  of 
liberty,  may  be  made  complete,  by  so  careful  a  preser- 


86  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

vation  and  so  prudent  a  use  of  this  blessing,  as  will 
acquire  to  them  the  glory  of  recommending  it  to  the 
applause,  the  affection,  and  adoption  of  every  nation 
which  is  yet  a  stranger  to  it. 

Here,  perhaps,  I  ought  to  stop.  But  a  solicitude 
for  your  welfare,  which  cannot  end  but  with  my  life^ 
and  the  apprehension  of  danger  natural  to  that  solici- 
tude, urge  me,  on  an  occasion  like  the  present,  tc 
offer  to  your  solemn  contemplation,  and  to  recommend 
to  your  frequent  review,  some  sentiments,  which  are 
the  result  of  much  reflection,  of  no  inconsiderable  ob- 
servation, and  which  appear  to  me  all-important  to 
the  permanency  of  your  felicity  as  a  people.  These 
will  be  offered  to  you  with  the  more  freedom,  as  you 
can  only  see  in  them  the  disinterested  warnings  of 
a  parting  friend,  who  can  possibly  have  no  personal 
motive  to  bias  his  counsel.  Nor  can  I  forget,  as  an 
encouragement  to  it,  your  indulgent  reception  of  my 
sentiments  on  a  former  and  not  dissimilar  occasion. 

Interwoven  as  is  the  love  of  liberty  with  every  liga^ 
ment  of  your  hearts,  no  recommendation  of  mine  is 
necessary  to  fortify  or  confirm  the  attachment. 

The  unity  of  government,  which  constitutes  you  one 
people,  is  also  now  dear  to  you.  It  is  justly  so  ;  for  it 
is  a  main  pillar  in  the  edifice  of  your  real  independence, 
the  support  of  your  tranquillity  at  home,  your  peace 
abroad  ;  of  your  safety ;  of  your  prosperity ;  of  that 
irery  liberty  which  you  so  highly  prize.  But  as  it  is 
easy  to  foresee  that  from  different  causes  and  from 
different  quarters  much  pains  will  be  taken,  many 
artifices  employed,  to  weaken  in  your  minds  the  convic- 
tion of  this  truth ;  as  this  is  the  point  in  your  political 
fortress  against  which  the  batteries  of  internal  and 
external  enemies  will  be  most  constantly  and  actively 


FAREWELL  ADDRESS   TO   THE  PEOPLE.      87 

(though  often  covertly  and  insidiously)  directed,  it  is 
of  infinite  moment  that  you  should  properly  estimate 
the  immense  value  of  your  national  union  to  your  col- 
lective and  individual  happiness ;  that  you  should 
cherish  a  cordial,  habitual,  and  immovable  attachment 
to  it ;  accustoming  yourselves  to  think  and  speak  of  it 
as  of  the  palladium  of  your  political  safety  and  pros- 
perity ;  watching  for  its  preservation  with  jealous 
anxiety ;  discountenancing  whatever  may  suggest  even 
a  suspicion  that  it  can  in  any  event  be  abandoned ; 
and  indignantly  frowning  upon  the  first  dawning  of 
every  attempt  to  alienate  any  portion  of  our  country 
from  the  rest,  or  to  enfeeble  the  sacred  ties  which  now 
link  together  the  various  parts. 

For  this  you  have  every  inducement  of  sympathy 
and  interest.  Citizens,  by  birth  or  choice,  of  a  com- 
mon country,  that  country  has  a  right  to  concentrate 
your  affections.  The  name  of  America,  which  belongs 
to  you,  in  your  national  capacity,  must  always  exalt 
the  just  pride  of  patriotism,  more  than  any  appella- 
tion derived  from  local  discriminations.  With  slight 
shades  of  difference,  you  have  the  same  religion,  man- 
ners, habits,  and  political  principles.  You  have  in  a 
common  cause  fought  and  triumphed  together ;  the 
independence  and  liberty  you  possess  are  the  work  of 
joint  counsels  and  joint  efforts,  of  common  .dangers, 
sufferings  and  successes. 

But  these  considerations,  however  powerfully  they 
address  themselves  to  your  sensibility,  are  greatly  out- 
weighed by  those  which  apply  more  immediately  to 
your  interest.  Here  every  portion  of  our  country  finds 
the  most  commanding  motives  for  carefully  guarding 
and  preserving  the  union  of  the  whole. 

The  North,  in  an  unrestrained  intercourse  with  the 


88  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

South,  protected  by  the  equal  laws  of  a  common  gov- 
ernment, finds  in  the  productions  of  the  latter  great 
additional  resources  of  maritime  and  commercial  en- 
terprise and  precious  materials  of  manufacturing  in- 
dustry. The  South  in  the  same  intercourse,  benefiting 
by  the  agency  of  the  North,  sees  its  agriculture  grow 
and  its  commerce  expand.  Turning  partly  into  its 
own  channels  the  seamen  of  the  North,  it  finds  its 
particular  navigation  invigorated ;  and,  while  it  con- 
tributes in  different  ways  to  nourish  and  increase  the 
general  mass  of  the  national  navigation,  it  looks  for- 
ward to  the  protection  of  a  maritime  strength,  to 
which  itself  is  unequally  adapted.  The  East,  in  a 
like  intercourse  with  the  West,  already  finds,  and  in 
the  progressive  improvement  of  interior  communica- 
tions by  land  and  water  will  more  and  more  find,  a 
valuable  vent  for  the  commodities  which  it  brings 
from  abroad,  or  manufactures  at  home.  The  West 
derives  from  the  East  supplies  requisite  to  its  growth 
and  comfort,  and,  what  is  perhaps  of  still  greater  con- 
sequence, it  must  of  necessity  owe  the  secure  enjoy- 
ment of  indispensable  outlets  for  its  own  productions 
to  the  weight,  influence,  and  the  future  maritime 
strength  of  the  Atlantic  side  of  the  Union,  directed 
by  an  indissoluble  community  of  interest  as  one  na- 
tion. Any  other  tenure  by  which  the  West  can  hold 
this  essential  advantage,  whether  derived  from  its  own 
separate  strength  or  from  an  apostate  and  unnatural 
connection  with  any  foreign  power,  must  be  intrinsi- 
cally precarious. 

While,  then,  every  part  of  our  country  thus  feels 
an  immediate  and  particular  interest  in  union,  all  the 
parts  combined  cannot  fail  to  find  in  the  united  mass 
of  means  and  efforts  greater  strength,  greater  resource, 


FAREWELL  ADDRESS   TO   THE  PEOPLE.      89 

proportionably  greater  security  from  external  danger, 
a  less  frequent  interruption  of  their  peace  by  foreign 
nations,  and,  what  is  of  inestimable  value,  they  must 
derive  from  union  an  exemption  from  those  broils  and 
wars  between  themselves,  which  so  frequently  afflict 
neighboring  countries  not  tied  together  by  the  same 
governments,  which  their  own  rivalships  alone  would 
be  sufficient  to  produce,  but  which  opposite  foreign 
alliances,  attachments,  and  intrigues  would  stimulate 
and  embitter.  Hence,  likewise,  they  will  avoid  the 
necessity  of  those  overgrown  military  establishments 
which,  under  any  form  of  government,  are  inau- 
spicious to  liberty,  and  which  are  to  be  regarded  as 
particularly  hostile  to  republican  liberty.  In  this 
sense  it  is  that  your  union  ought  to  be  considered  as 
a  main  prop  of  your  liberty,  and  that  the  love  of  the 
one  ought  to  endear  to  you  the  preservation  of  the 
other. 

These  considerations  speak  a  persuasive  language  to 
every  reflecting  and  virtuous  mind,  and  exhibit  the 
continuance  of  the  Union  as  a  primary  object  of  patri- 
otic desire.  Is  there  a  doubt  whether  a  common 
government  can  embrace  so  large  a  sphere?  Let  ex- 
perience solve  it.  To  listen  to  mere  speculation  in 
such  a  case  were  criminal.  We  are  authorized  to  hope 
that  a  proper  organization  of  the  whole,  with  the  aux- 
iliary agency  of  governments  for  the  respective  subdi- 
visions, will  afford  a  happy  issue  to  the  experiment. 
It  is  well  worth  a  fair  and  full  experiment.  With 
such  powerful  and  obvious  motives  to  union,  affecting 
all  parts  of  our  country,  while  experience  shall  not 
have  demonstrated  its  impracticability,  there  will  al- 
ways be  reason  to  distrust  the  patriotism  of  those  who 
in  any  quarter  may  endeavor  to  weaken  its  bands. 


90  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

In  contemplating  the  causes  which  may  disturb  our 
Union,  it  occurs  as  a  matter  of  serious  concern,  that 
any  ground  should  have  been  furnished  for  charac* 
terizing  parties  by  geographical  discriminations  Nor- 
thern and  Southern,  Atlantic  and  Western ;  whence 
designing  men  may  endeavor  to  excite  a  belief  that 
there  is  a  real  difference  of  local  interests  and  views. 
One  of  the  expedients  of  party  to  acquire  influence, 
within  particular  districts,  is  to  misrepresent  the  opin- 
ions and  aims  of  other  districts.  You  cannot  shield 
yourselves  too  much  against  the  jealousies  and  heart- 
burnings which  spring  from  these  misrepresentations ; 
they  tend  to  render  alien  to  each  other  those  who 
ought  to  be  bound  together  by  fraternal  affection. 
The  inhabitants  of  our  western  country  have  lately 
had  a  useful  lesson  on  this  head ;  they  have  seen,  in 
the  negotiation  by  the  executive,  and  in  the  unanimous 
ratification  by  the  senate,  of  the  treaty  with  Spain, 
and  in  the  universal  satisfaction  at  that  event  through- 
out the  United  States,  a  decisive  proof  how  unfounded 
were  the  suspicions  propagated  among  them  of  a  pol- 
icy in  the  general  government  and  in  the  Atlantic 
States  unfriendly  to  their  interests  in  regard  to  the 
Mississippi ;  they  have  been  witnesses  to  the  forma- 
tion of  two  treaties,  that  with  Great  Britain  and  that 
with  Spain,  which  secure  to  them  everything  they 
could  desire,  in  respect  to  our  foreign  relations, 
towards  confirming  theii*  prosperity.  Will  it  not  be 
their  wisdom  to  rely  for  the  preservation  of  these  ad- 
vantages on  the  Union  by  which  they  were  procured  "^ 
Will  they  not  henceforth  be  deaf  to  those  advisers 
if  such  there  are,  who  would  sever  them  from  theii 
brethren  and  connect  them  with  aliens  ? 

To  the  efficacy  and  permanency  of  your  union,  a 


FAREWELL  ADDRESS   TO   THE  PEOPLE.     91 

government  for  the  whole  is  indispensable.  No  al- 
liances, however  strict,  between  the  parts  can  be  an 
adequate  substitute  ;  they  must  inevitably  experience 
the  infractions  and  interruptions  which  all  alliances 
in  all  times  have  experienced.  Sensible  of  this  mo- 
mentous truth,  you  have  improved  upon  your  first 
essay,  by  the  adoption  of  a  constitution  of  govern* 
ment  better  calculated  than  your  former  for  an  inti- 
mate union,  and  for  the  efficacious  management  of 
your  common  concerns.  This  government,  the  off- 
spring of  our  own  choice,  uninfluenced  and  unawed, 
adopted  upon  full  investigation  and  mature  delibera- 
tion, completely  free  in  its  principles,  in  the  distribu- 
tion of  its  powers,  uniting  security  with  energy,  and 
containing  within  itself  a  provision  for  its  own  amend- 
ment, has  a  just  claim  to  your  confidence  and  your 
support.  Respect  for  its  authority,  compliance  with 
its  laws,  acquiescence  in  its  measures,  are  duties  en- 
joined by  the  fundamental  maxims  of  true  Liberty. 
The  basis  of  our  political  systems  is  the  right  of  the 
people  to  make  and  to  alter  their  constitutions  of  gov- 
ernment. But  the  constitution  which  at  any  time 
exists,  till  changed  by  an  explicit  and  authentic  act 
of  the  whole  people,  is  sacredly  obligatory  upon  alL 
The  very  idea  of  the  power  and  the  right  of  the  peo- 
ple to  establish  government  presupposes  the  duty  o£ 
every  individual  to  obey  the  established  government. 

All  obstructions  to  the  execution  of  the  laws,  all 
combinations  and  associations,  under  whatever  plausi- 
ble character,  with  the  real  design  to  direct,  control, 
counteract,  or  awe  the  regular  deliberation  and  ac- 
tion of  the  constituted  authorities,  are  destructive  of 
this  fundamental  principle,  and  of  fatal  tendency. 
They  serve  to  organize  faction,  to  give  it  an  artificial 


92  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

and  extraordinary  force;  to  put  in  the  place  of  the 
delegated  will  of  the  nation,  the  will  of  a  party,  often 
a  small  but  artful  and  enterprising  minority  of  the 
community  ;  and,  according  to  the  alternate  triumphs 
of  different  parties,  to  make  the  public  administratior 
the  mirror  of  the  ill-concerted  and  incongruous  pro 
jects  of  fashion,  rather  than  the  organs  of  consistent 
and  wholesome  plans  digested  by  common  councils 
and  modified  by  mutual  interests. 

However  combinations  or  associations  of  the  above 
description  may  now  and  then  answer  popular  ends, 
they  are  likely,  in  the  course  of  time  and  things,  to  be- 
come potent  engines,  by  which  cunning,  ambitious,  and 
unprincipled  men  will  be  enabled  to  subvert  the  power 
of  the  people,  and  to  usurp  for  themselves  the  reins  of 
government ;  destroying  afterwards  the  very  engines 
which  have  lifted  them  to  unjust  dominion. 

Towards  the  preservation  of  your  government,  and 
the  permanency  of  your  present  happy  state,  it  is 
requisite,  not  only  that  you  steadily  discountenance 
irregular  oppositions  to  its  acknowledged  authority, 
but  also  that  you  resist  with  care  the  spirit  of  innova- 
tion upon  its  principles,  however  specious  the  pre- 
texts. One  method  of  assault  may  be  to  effect,  in  the 
forms  of  the  constitution,  alterations,  which  will 
impair  the  energy  of  the  system,  and  thus  to  under- 
mine what  cannot  be  directly  overthrown.  In  all  the 
changes  to  which  you  may  be  invited,  remember  that 
time  and  hp.bit  are  at  least  as  necessary  to  fix  the  true 
character  of  governments  as  of  other  human  institu- 
tions  ;  that  experience  is  the  surest  standard  by  which 
to  test  the  real  tendency  of  the  existing  constitution 
of  a  country  ;  that  facility  in  changes,  upon  the  credit 
of  mere  hypothesis  and  opinion,  exposes  to  perpetual 


FAREWELL  ADDRESS   TO   THE  PEOPLE.     93 

change,  from  the  endless  variety  of  hypothesis  and 
opinion ;  and  remember,  especially,  that,  for  the  effi- 
cient management  of  your  common  interests,  in  a  coun- 
try so  extensive  as  ours,  a  government  of  as  much 
-:/igor  as  is  consistent  with  the  perfect  security  of  lib- 
erty is  indispensable.  Liberty  itself  will  find  in  such 
•a,  government,  with  powers  properly  distributed  and 
adjusted,  its  surest  guardian.  It  is,  indeed,  little  else 
than  a  name,  where  the  government  is  too  feeble  to 
withstand  the  enterprises  of  faction,  to  confine  each 
member  of  the  society  within  the  limits  prescribed  by 
the  laws,  and  to  maintain  all  in  the  secure  and  tran- 
quil enjoyment  of  the  rights  of  person  and  property. 

I  have  already  intimated  to  you  the  danger  of  par- 
ties in  the  State,  with  particular  reference  to  the 
founding  of  them  on  geographical  discrimination. 
Let  me  now  take  a  more  comprehensive  view,  and 
warn  you  in  the  most  solemn  manner  against  the  bane- 
ful effects  of  the  spirit  of  party,  generally. 

This  spirit,  unfortunately,  is  inseparable  from  our 
nature,  having  its  root  in  the  strongest  passions  of  the 
human  mind.  It  exists  under  different  shapes  in  all 
governments,  more  or  less  stifled,  controlled,  or  re- 
pressed ;  but  in  those  of  the  popular  form  it  is  seen 
in  its  greatest  rankness,  and  is  truly  their  worst 
enemy. 

The  alternate  domination  of  one  faction  over  an- 
other, sharpened  by  the  spirit  of  revenge,  natural  to 
party  dissension,  which  in  different  ages  and  countries 
has  perpetrated  the  most  horrid  enormities,  is  itself  a 
frightful  despotism.  But  this  leads  at  length  to  a 
more  formal  and  permanent  despotism.  The  disor- 
ders and  miseries  which  result,  gradually  incline  the 
minds  of  men  to  seek  security  and  repose  in  the  abso- 


M  GEORGE   WASHINGTON. 

lute  power  of  an  individual ;  and  sooner  or  later  the 
chief  of  some  prevailing  faction,  more  able  or  n^ore 
fortunate  than  his  competitors,  turns  this  disposition 
to  the  purposes  of  his  own  elevation,  on  the  ruins  of 
public  liberty. 

Without  looking  forward  to  an  extremity  of  this 
>kind  (which  nevertheless  ought  not  to  be  entirely 
out  of  sight},  the  common  and  continued  mischiefs  of 
the  spirit  of  party  are  sufficient  to  make  it  the  in- 
terest and  duty  of  a  wise  people  to  discourage  and  re* 
strain  it. 

It  serves  always  to  distract  the  public  councils, 
and  enfeeble  the  public  administration.  It  agitates 
the  community  with  ill-founded  jealousies  and  false 
alarms  ;  kindles  the  animosity  of  one  part  against  an- 
other, foments  occasionally  riot  and  insurrection.  It 
opens  the  doors  to  foreign  influence  and  corruption, 
which  find  a  facilitated  access  to  the  government  itself 
through  the  channels  of  party  passions.  Thus  the 
policy  and  the  will  of  one  country  are  subjected  to  the 
policy  and  will  of  another. 

There  is  an  opinion,  that  parties  in  free  countries 
are  useful  checks  upon  the  administration  of  the  gov- 
ernment, and  serve  to  keep  alive  the  spirit  of  liberty. 
This  within  certain  limits  is  probably  true,  and  in 
governments  of  a  monarchical  cast,  patriotism  may 
look  with  indulgence,  if  not  with  favor,  upon  the  spirit 
of  party.  But  in  those  of  the  popular  character,  in 
governments  purely  elective,  it  is  a  spirit  not  to  be 
encouraged.  From  their  natural  tendency,  it  is  cer- 
tain there  will  always  be  enough  of  that  spirit  for 
every  salutary  purpose.  And  there  being  constant 
danger  of  excess,  the  effort  ought  to  be,  by  force  of 
public  opinion  to  mitigate  and  assuage  it.     A  fire  not 


FAREWELL   ADDRESS   TO   THE  PEOPLE.       95 

to  be  quenched,  it  demands  a  uniform  vigilance  to  pre- 
vent its  bursting  into  a  flame,  lest,  instead  of  warm- 
ing, it  should  consume. 

It  is  important,  likewise,  that  the  habits  of  thinking 
in  a  free  country  should  inspire  caution,  in  those  in- 
trusted with  its  administration,  to  confine  themselves 
within  their  respective  constitutional  spheres,  avoid- 
ing in  the  exercise  of  the  powers  of  one  department  to 
encroach  upon  another.  The  spirit  of  encroachment 
tends  to  consolidate  the  powers  of  all  the  departments 
in  one,  and  thus  to  create,  whatever  the  form  of  gov- 
ernment, a  real  despotism.  A  just  estimate  of  that 
love  of  power,  and  proneness  to  abuse  it,  which  pre- 
dominates in  the  human  heart,  is  sufficient  to  satisfy 
us  of  the  truth  of  this  position.  The  necessity  of 
reciprocal  checks  in  the  exercise  of  political  power,  by 
dividing  and  distributing  it  into  different  depositories, 
and  constituting  each  the  guardian  of  the  public  weal 
against  invasions  by  the  others,  has  been  evinced  by 
experiments  ancient  and  modern,  some  of  them  in  our 
country  and  under  our  own  eyes.  To  preserve  them 
must  be  as  necessary  as  to  institute  them.  If,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  people,  the  distribution  or  modification 
of  the  constitutional  powers  be  in  any  particular 
wrong,  let  it  be  corrected  by  an  amendment  in  the  way 
which  the  Constitution  designates.  But  let  there  be 
no  change  by  usurpation ;  for,  though  this,  in  one  in- 
stance, may  be  the  instrument  of  good,  it  is  the  cus 
tomary  w^eapon  by  which  free  governments  are  de- 
stroyed. The  precedent  must  always  greatly  over- 
balance in  permanent  evil  any  partial  or  transient 
benefit  which  the  use  can  at  any  time  yield. 

Of  all  the  dispositions   and  habits  which  lead  to 
political  prosperity,  religion  and  morality  are  indis 


96  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

pensable  supports.  In  vain  would  that  man  claim  the 
tribute  of  patriotism,  who  should  labor  to  subvert 
these  great  pillars  of  human  happiness,  these  firmest 
props  of  the  duties  of  men  and  citizens.  The  mere 
politician  equally  with  the  pious  man  ought  to  respect 
and  to  cherish  them.  A  volume  could  not  trace  all 
their  connections  with  private  and  public  felicity.  Let 
it  simply  be  asked.  Where  is  the  security  for  property, 
for  reputation,  for  life,  if  the  sense  of  religious  obliga- 
tion desert  the  oaths,  which  are  the  instruments  of  in- 
vestigation in  courts  of  justice?  And  let  us  with 
caution  indulge  the  supposition,  that  morality  can  be 
maintained  without  religion.  Whatever  may  be  con- 
ceded to  the  influence  of  refined  education  on  minds 
of  peculiar  structure,  reason  and  experience  both  for- 
bid us  to  expect,  that  national  morality  can  prevail  in 
exclusion  of  religious  principle. 

It  is  substantially  true  that  virtue  or  morality  is  a 
necessary  spring  of  popular  government.  The  rule, 
indeed,  extends  with  more  or  less  force  to  every  species 
of  free  government.  Who,  that  is  a  sincere  friend  to 
it,  can  look  with  indifference  upon  attempts  to  shake 
the  foundation  of  the  fabric  ? 

Promote,  then,  as  an  object  of  primary  importance, 
institutions  for  the  general  diffusion  of  knowledge. 
In  proportion  as  the  structure  of  a  government  gives 
force  to  public  opinion,  it  is  essential  that  public 
opinion  should  be  enlightened. 

As  a  very  important  source  of  strength  and  secu- 
rity, cherish  public  credit.  One  method  of  preserving 
it  is,  to  use  it  as  sparingly  as  possible  ;  avoiding  occa- 
sions of  expense  by  cultivating  peace,  but  remember- 
ing also  that  timely  disbursements  to  prepare  for 
danger  frequently    prevent    much    greater    disburse^ 


FAREWELL  ADDRESS   TO    THE  PEOPLE,       97 

ments  to  repel  it ;  avoiding  likewise  the  accumulation 
of  debt,  not  only  by  shunning  occasions  of  expense, 
but  by  vigorous  exertion  in  time  of  peace  to  discharge 
the  debts,  which  unavoidable  wars  may  have  occa- 
sioned, not  ungenerously  throwing  upon  posterity  the 
burden  which  we  ourselves  ought  to  bear.  The  exe* 
cution  of  these  maxims  belongs  to  your  representa- 
tives, but  it  is  necessary  that  public  opinion  should 
co-operate.  To  facilitate  to  them  the  performance  of 
their  duty  it  is  essential  that  you  should  practically 
bear  in  mind,  that  towards  the  payment  of  debts  there 
must  be  revenue ;  that  to  have  revenue  there  must  be 
taxes ;  that  no  taxes  can  be  devised  which  are  not 
more  or  less  inconvenient  and  unpleasant ;  that  the 
intrinsic  embarrassment,  inseparable  from  the  selec- 
tion of  the  proper  objects  (which  is  always  a  choice  of 
difficulties),  ought  to  be  a  decisive  motive  for  a  can- 
did  construction  of  the  conduct  of  the  government  in 
making  it,  and  for  a  spirit  of  acquiescence  in  the 
measures  for  obtaining  revenue  which  the  public  exi- 
gencies may  at  any  time  dictate. 

Observe  good  faith  and  justice  towards  all  nations  ; 
cultivate  peace  and  harmony  with  all.  Religion  and 
morality  enjoin  this  conduct ;  and  can  it  be,  that  good 
policy  does  not  equally  enjoin  it  ?  It  will  be  worthy 
of  a  free,  enlightened,  and  at  no  distant  period  a 
great  nation,  to  give  to  mankind  the  magnanimous 
and  too  novel  example  of  a  people  always  guided  by 
an  exalted  justice  and  benevolence.  Who  can  doubt 
that  in  the  course  of  time  and  things,  the  fruits  of 
such  a  plan  would  richly  repay  any  temporary  advan- 
tages, which  might  be  lost  by  a  steady  adherence  to 
it  ?  Can  it  be  that  Providence  has  not  connected  the 
permanent  felicity  of  a  nation  with  its  virtue  ?     The 


98  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

experiment,  at  least,  is  recommended  by  every  senti« 
ment  which  ennobles  human  nature.  Alas  !  is  it  ren- 
dered impossible  by  its  vices  ? 

In  the  execution  of  such  a  plan,  nothing  is  more 
essential  than  that  permanent,  inveterate  antipathies 
against  particular  nations,  and  passionate  attachments 
for  others,  should  be  excluded ;  and  that,  in  place  of 
them,  just  and  amicable  feelings  towards  all  should  be 
cultivated.  The  nation  which  indulges  towards  an- 
other an  habitual  hatred,  or  an  habitual  fondness,  is 
in  some  degree  a  slave.  It  is  a  slave  to  its  animosity 
or  to  its  affection,  either  of  which  is  sufficient  to  lead 
it  astray  from  its  duty  and  its  interest.  Antipathy  in 
one  nation  against  another  disposes  each  more  readily 
to  offer  insult  and  injury,  to  lay  hold  of  slight  causes  of 
umbrage,  and  to  be  haughty  and  intractable  when  ac- 
cidental or  trifling  occasions  of  dispute  occur.  Hence, 
frequent  collisions,  obstinate,  envenomed,  and  bloody 
contests.  The  nation,  prompted  by  ill-will  and  resent- 
ment, sometimes  impels  to  war  the  government,  con- 
trary to  the  best  calculations  of  policy.  The  govern- 
ment sometimes  participates  in  the  national  propen- 
sity, and  adopts  through  passion  what  reason  would 
reject ;  at  other  times,  it  makes  the  animosity  of  the 
nation  subservient  to  projects  of  hostility  instigated 
by  pride,  ambition,  and  other  sinister  and  pernicious 
motives.  The  peace  often,  sometimes  perhaps  the  lib- 
erty, of  nations  has  been  the  victim. 

So  likewise,  a  passionate  attachment  of  one  nation 
for  another  produces  a  variety  of  evils.  Sympathy 
for  the  favorite  nation,  facilitating  the  illusion  of  an 
imaginary  common  interest  in  cases  where  no  real 
common  interest  exists,  and  infusing  into  one  the  en- 
mities of  the  other,  betrays  the  former  into  a  partioi 


FAREWELL  ADDRESS   TO   THE  PEOPLE.       99 

pation  in  the  quarrels  and  wars  of  the  latter,  without 
adequate  inducement  or  justification.  It  leads  also  to 
concessions  to  the  favorite  nation  of  privileges  denied 
to  others,  which  is  apt  doubly  to  injure  the  nation 
making  the  concessions,  by  unnecessarily  parting  with 
what  ought  to  have  been  retained,  and  by  exciting 
jealousy,  ill-will,  and  a  disposition  to  retaliate,  in  the 
parties  from  whom  equal  privileges  are  withheld. 
And  it  gives  to  ambitious,  corrupted,  or  deluded  citi- 
zens (who  devote  themselves  to  the  favorite  nation), 
facility  to  betray  or  sacrifice  the  interests  of  their  own 
country,  without  odium,  sometimes  even  with  popular- 
ity ;  gilding  with  the  appearances  of  a  virtuous  sense 
of  obligation,  a  commendable  deference  for  public 
opinion,  or  a  laudable  zeal  for  public  good,  the  base 
or  foolish  compliances  of  ambition,  corruption,  or  in- 
fatuation. 

As  avenues  to  foreign  influence  in  innumerable 
ways  such  attachments  are  particularly  alarming  to 
the  truly  enlightened  and  independent  patriot.  How 
many  opportunities  do  they  afford  to  tamper  with 
domestic  factions,  to  practise  the  arts  of  seduction,  to 
mislead  public  opinion,  to  influence  or  awe  the  public 
councils!  Such  an  attachment  of  a  small  or  weak, 
towards  a  great  and  powerful  nation,  dooms  the  for- 
mer to  be  the  satellite  of  the  latter. 

Against  the  insidious  wiles  of  foreign  influence  (I 
conjure  you  to  believe  me,  fellow-citizens),  the  jeal- 
ousy of  a  free  people  ought  to  be  constantly  awake, 
since  history  and  experience  prove  that  foreign  influ- 
ence is  one  of  the  most  baneful  foes  of  republican 
government.  But  that  jealousy,  to  be  useful,  must  be 
impartial;  else  it  becomes  the  instrument  of  the  very 
influence  to  be  avoided,  instead  of  a  defence  against  it. 


100  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

Excessive  partiality  for  one  foreign  nation,  and  exces- 
sive dislike  of  another,  cause  those  whom  they  actuate 
to  see  danger  only  on  one  side,  and  serve  to  veil  and 
even  second  the  arts  of  influence  on  the  other.  Real 
patriots  who  may  resist  the  intrigues  of  the  favorite, 
are  liable  to  become  suspected  and  odious ;  while  its' 
tools  and  dupes  usurp  the  applause  and  confidence  o;^ 
the  purpose,  to  surrender  their  interests. 

The  great  rule  of  conduct  for  us,  in  regard  to  for= 
eign  nations,  is,  in  extending  our  commercial  rela- 
tions, to  have  with  them  as  little  political  connection 
as  possible.  So  far  as  we  have  already  formed  en- 
gagements, let  them  be  fulfilled  with  perfect  good 
faith.     Here  let  us  stop. 

Europe  has  a  set  of  primary  interests,  which  to  us 
have  none,  or  a  very  remote  relation.  Hence  she 
must  be  engaged  in  frequent  controversies,  the  causes 
of  which  are  essentially  foreign  to  our  concerns. 
Hence,  therefore,  it  must  be  unwise  in  us  to  implicate 
ourselves,  by  artificial  ties,  in  the  ordinary  vicissitudes 
of  her  politics,  or  the  ordinary  combinations  and  collis- 
ions of  her  friendships  or  enmities. 

Our  detached  and  distant  situation  invites  and  en- 
ables us  to  pursue  a  different  course.  If  we  remain 
one  people,  under  an  efficient  government,  the  period 
is  not  far  off  when  we  may  defy  material  injury  from, 
external  annoyance ;  when  we  may  take  such  an  atti- 
tude as  will  cause  the  neutrality,  we  may  at  any  time 
resolve  upon,  to  be  scrupulously  respected ;  when  bel- 
ligerent nations,  under  the  impossibility  of  making 
acquisitions  upon  us,  will  not  lightly  hazard  the  giving 
us  provocation ;  when  we  may  choose  peace  or  war,  as 
our  interest,  guided  by  justice,  shall  counsel. 

Why  forego  the  advantages  of  so  peculiar  a  situa* 


FAREWELL  ADDRESS   TO   THE  PEOPLE.     101 

tion?  Why  quit  our  own  to  stand  upon  foreign 
ground  ?  Why,  by  interweaving  our  destiny  with  that 
of  any  part  of  Europe,  entangle  our  peace  and  pros- 
perity in  the  toils  of  European  ambition^  rivalship. 
Interest,  humor,  or  caprice  ? 

It  is  our  true  policy  to  steer  clear  of  permanent  al- 
liances with  any  portion  of  the  foreign  world ;  so  far, 
I  mean,  as  we  are  now  at  liberty  to  do  it ;  for  let  me 
not  be  understood  as  capable  of  patronizing  infidelity 
to  existing  engagements.  I  hold  the  maxim  no  less 
applicable  to  public  than  to  private  affairs,  that  hon- 
esty is  always  the  best  policy.  I  repeat  it,  therefore, 
let  those  engagements  be  observed  in  their  genuine 
sense.  But,  in  my  opinion,  it  is  unnecessary  and 
would  be  unwise  to  extend  them. 

Taking  care  always  to  keep  ourselves,  by  suitable 
establishments,  on  a  respectable  defensive  posture,  we 
may  safely  trust  to  temporary  alliances  for  extraordi- 
nary emergencies. 

Harmony,  liberal  intercourse  with  all  nations,  are 
recommended  by  policy,  humanity,  and  interest.  But 
even  our  commercial  policy  should  hold  an  equal  and 
impartial  hand;  neither  seeking  nor  granting  exclu- 
sive favors  or  preferences ;  consulting  the  natural 
course  of  things ;  diffusing  and  diversifying  by  gentle 
means  the  streams  of  commerce,  but  forcing  nothing ; 
establishing  with  powers  so  disposed,  in  order  to  give 
trade  a  stable  course,  to  define  the  rights  of  our  mer- 
chants, and  to  enable  the  government  to  support  them, 
conventional  rules  of  intercourse,  the  best  that  present 
circumstances  and  mutual  opinion  will  permit,  but 
temporary,  and  liable  to  be  from  time  to  time  aban- 
doned or  Varied,  as  experience  and  circumstances  shaU 
dictate  ;  constantly  keeping  in  view,  that  it  is  folly  in 


102  GEORGE    WASHINGTON. 

one  nation  to  look  for  disinterested  favors  from  an- 
other ;  that  it  must  pay  with  a  portion  of  its  indepen- 
dence for  whatever  it  may  accept  under  that  charac- 
ter ;  that,  by  such  acceptance,  it  may  place  itself  in 
the  condition  of  having  given  equivalents  for  nominal 
favors,  and  yet  of  being  reproached  with  ingratitude 
for  not  giving  more.  There  can  be  no  greater  error 
than  to  expect  or  calculate  upon  real  favors  from 
nation  to  nation.  It  is  an  illusion,  which  experience 
must  cure,  which  a  just  pride  ought  to  discard. 

In  offering  to  you,  my  countrymen,  these  counsels 
of  an  old  and  affectionate  friend,  I  dare  not  hope  they 
will  make  the  strong  and  lasting  impression  I  could 
wish;  that  they  will  control  the  usual  current  of  the 
passions,  or  prevent  our  nation  from  running  the 
course  which  has  hitherto  marked  the  destiny  of  na- 
tions. But,  if  I  may  even  flatter  myself  that  they 
may  be  productive  of  some  partial  benefit,  some  occa- 
sional good ;  that  they  may  now  and  then  recur  to 
moderate  the  fury  of  party  spirit,  to  warn  against  the 
mischiefs  of  foreign  intrigue,  to  guard  against  the 
impostures  of  pretended  patriotism  ;  this  hope  will  be 
a  full  recompense  for  the  solicitude  for  your  welfare, 
by  which  they  have  been  dictated. 

How  far  in  the  discharge  of  my  official  duties  I 
have  been  guided  by  the  principles  which  have  been 
delineated,  the  public  records  and  other  evidences  of 
my  conduct  must  witness  to  you  and  to  the  world.  To 
myself,  the  assurance  of  my  own  conscience  is,  that  I 
have  at  least  believed  myself  to  be  guided  by  them. 

In  relation  to  the  still  subsisting  war  in  Europe, 
ray  proclamation  of  the  22d  of  April,  1793,  is  the  in- 
dex of  my  plan.  Sanctioned  by  your  approving  voice, 
and  by  that  of  your  Representatives  in  both  Houses 


FAREWELL   ADDRESS    TO   THE  PEOPLE.     lOB 

of  Congress,  the  spirit  of  that  measure  has  continu- 
ally governed  me,  uninfluenced  by  any  attempts  to 
deter  or  divert  me  from  it. 

After  delibei^te  examination,  with  the  aid  of  the 
best  lights  I  could  obtain,  I  was  well  satisfied  that 
our  country,  under  all » the  circumstances  of  the  case, 
had  a  right  to  take,  and  was  bound  in  duty  and  inter- 
est to  take,  a  neutral  position.  Having  taken  it,  I 
determined,  as  far  as  should  depend  upon  me,  to  main- 
tain it,  with  moderation,  perseverance  and  firmness. 

The  considerations  which  respect  the  right  to  hold 
this  conduct,  it  is  not  necessary  on  this  occasion  to 
detail.  I  will  only  observe,  that,  according  to  my 
understanding  of  the  matter,  that  right,  so  far  from 
being  denied  by  any  of  the  belligerent  powers,  has 
been  virtually  admitted  by  all. 

The  duty  of  holding  a  neutral  conduct  may  be  in- 
ferred, without  anything  more,  from  the  obligation 
which  justice  and  humanity  impose  on  every  nation, 
in  cases  in  which  it  is  free  to  act,  to  maintain  invio- 
late the  relations  of  peace  and  amity  towards  other 
nations. 

The  inducements  of  interest  for  observing  that  con- 
duct will  best  be  referred  to  your  own  reflections  and 
experience.  With  me  a  predominant  motive  has  been 
to  endeavor  to  gain  time  to  our  country  to  settle  and 
mature  its  yet  recent  institutions,  and  to  progress 
without  interruption  to  that  degree  of  strength  and 
consistency  which  is  necessary  to  give  it,  humanly 
speaking,  the  command  of  its  own  fortunes. 

Though,  in  reviewing  the  incidents  of  my  adminis- 
tration, I  am  unconscious  of  intentional  error,  I  am 
nevertheless  too  sensible  of  my  defects  not  to  think 
it  probable  that  I  may  have  committed  many  errors. 


104  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

Whatever  they  may  be,  I  fervently  beseech  the  Al- 
mighty to  avert  or  mitigate  the  evils  to  which  they 
may  tend.  I  shall  also  carry  with  me  the  hope  that 
my  country  will  never  cease  to  view  them  with  indul- 
gence ;  and  that,  after  forty-five  years  of  my  life  dedi- 
cated to  its  service  with  an  upright  zeal,  the  faults  of 
incompetent  abilities  will  be  consigned  to  oblivion,  as 
myself  must  soon  be  to  the  mansions  of  rest. 

Relying  on  its  kindness  in  this  as  in  other  things, 
and  actuated  by  that  fervent  love  towards  it,  which 
is  so  natural  to  a  man  who  views  in  it  the  native  soil 
of  himself  and  his  progenitors  for  several  generations. 
I  anticipate  with  pleasing  expectation  that  retreat,  in 
which  I  promise  myself  to  realize,  without  alloy,  the 
sweet  enjoyment  of  partaking,  in  the  midst  of  my  fel- 
low-citizens, the  benign  influence  of  good  laws  under  a 
free  government,  the  ever  favorite  object  of  my  heart, 
and  the  happy  reward,  as  I  trust,  of  our  mutual  cares, 
labors,  and  dangers. 

Geop^e  Washington. 


tEPtie  ieiit)er0toe  ^literature  ^tnt& 


THE   BUNKER   HILL  MONUMENT 


Sin  (Juration 


BY 


DANIEL  WEBSTER 


WITH  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 


m^^^^m 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

Boston :  4  Park  Street ;  New  York :  86  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago :  373-388  Wabash  Avenue 


The  Introduction  and  some  of  the  notes,  as  well  as  the  text  of  the 
Oration,  are  taken,  by  the  courteous  permission  of  the  publishers, 
from  the  edition  of  the  Works  of  Daniel  Webster,  issued  in  six  vol- 
umes, in  1851,  by  Little,  Brown  <fe  Co.,  Boston. 


COPYRIGHT    1893   BY   HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN   &    CO. 
ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT. 

AN  ADDRESS  DELIVERED  AT  THE  LAYING  OF  THE  CORNER' 
STONE  OF  THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT  AT  CHARLES- 
TOWN,   MASS.,   ON   THE   17TH   OF  JUNE,    1825. 

[As  early  as  1776,  some  steps  were  taken  toward  the  com- 
memoration of  the  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill  and  the  fall  of 
General  Warren,  who  was  buried  upon  the  hill  the  day  after 
the  action.  The  Massachusetts  Lodge  of  Masons,  over 
which  Warren  had  presided,  applied  to  the  provisional  gov- 
ernment of  Massachusetts  for  permission  to  take  up  his  re- 
mains and  to  bury  them  with  the  usual  solemnities.  The 
council  granted  this  request,  on  condition  that  it  should  be 
carried  into  effect  in  such  a  manner  that  the  government  of 
the  Colony  might  have  an  opportunity  to  erect  a  monument 
to  his  memory.  A  funeral  procession  was  had,  and  a  eulogy 
on  General  Warren  was  delivered  by  Perez  Morton,  but  no 
measures  were  taken  toward  building  a  monument. 

A  resolution  was  adopted  by  the  Congress  of  the  United 
States  on  the  8th  of  April,  1777,  directing  that  monuments 
should  be  erected  to  the  memory  of  General  Warren,  in 
Boston,  and  of  General  Mercer,  at  Fredericksburg ;  but  this 
resolution  has  remained  to  the  present  time  unexecuted. 

On  the  11th  of  November,  1794,  a  committee  was  ap- 
pointed by  King  Solomon's  Lodge,  at  Charlestown,^  to  take 
measures  for  the  erection  of  a  monument  to  the  memory  of 
General  Joseph  Warren,  at  the  expense  of  the  lodge.  This 
resolution  was  promptly  carried  into  effect.     The  land  for 

^  General  Warren,  at  the  time  of  his  decease,  was  Grand 
Master  of  the  Masonic  Lodges  in  America. 


8  DANIEL  WEBSTER, 

this  purpose  was  presented  to  the  lodge  by  the  Hon.  James 
Russell,  of  Charlestown,  and  it  was  dedicated  with  appro- 
priate ceremonies  on  the  2d  of  December,  1794.  It  was  a 
wooden  pillar  of  the  Tuscan  order,  eighteen  feet  in  height, 
raised  on  a  pedestal  eight  feet  square,  and  of  an  elevation 
of  ten  feet  from  the  ground.  The  pillar  was  surmounted 
by  a  gilt  urn.  An  appropriate  inscription  was  placed  on  the 
south  side  of  the  pedestal. 

In  February,  1818,  a  committee  of  the  legislature  of 
Massachusetts  was  appointed  to  consider  the  expediency  of 
building  a  monument  of  American  marble  to  the  memory 
of  General  Warren,  but  this  proposal  was  not  carried  into 
effect. 

As  the  half-century  from  the  date  of  the  battle  drew  to- 
ward a  close,  a  stronger  feeling  of  the  duty  of  commemo- 
rating it  began  to  be  awakened  in  the  community.  Among 
those  who  from  the  first  manifested  the  greatest  interest  in 
the  subject  was  the  late  William  Tudor,  Esq.  He  expressed 
the  wish,  in  a  letter  still  preserved,  to  see  upon  the  battle^ 
ground  "  the  noblest  monument  in  the  world,"  and  he  was 
so  ardent  and  persevering  in  urging  the  project,  that  it  has 
been  stated  that  he  first  conceived  the  idea  of  it.  The  steps 
taken  in  execution  of  the  project,  from  the  earliest  private 
conferences  among  the  gentlemen  first  engaged  in  it  to  its 
final  completion,  are  accurately  sketched  by  Mr.  Richard 
Frothingham,  Jr.,  in  his  valuable  History  of  the  Siege  of 
Boston.  All  the  material  facts  contained  in  this  note  are 
derived  from  his  chapter  on  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument. 
After  giving  an  account  of  the  organization  of  the  society, 
the  measures  adopted  for  the  collection  of  funds,  and  the 
deliberations  on  the  form  of  the  monument,  Mr.  Frothing^ 
ham  proceeds  as  follows  :  — 

"  It  was  at  this  stage  of  the  enterprise  that  the  directors 
proposed  to  lay  the  corner-stone  of  the  monument,  and 
ground  was  broken  (June  7th)  for  this  purpose.  As  a 
mark  of  respect  to  the  liberality  and  patriotism  of  King 


I 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT,  9 

Solomon's  Lodge,  they  invited  the  Grand  Master  of  the 
Grand  Lodge  of  Massachusetts  to  perform  the  ceremony. 
They  also  invited  General  Lafayette  to  accompany  the 
President  of  the  Association,  Hon.  Daniel  Webster,  and 
assist  in  it. 

"This  celebration  was  unequalled  in  magnificence  by 
anything  of  the  kind  that  had  been  seen  in  New  England. 
The  morning  proved  propitious.  The  air  was  cool,  the  sky 
"^as  clear,  and  timely  showers  the  previous  day  had  bright- 
ened the  vesture  of  nature  into  its  loveliest  hue.  Delighted 
thousands  flocked  into  Boston  to  bear  a  part  in  the  proceed- 
ings, or  to  witness  the  spectacle.  At  about  ten  o'clock  a 
procession  mov^d  from  the  State  House  towards  Bunker 
Hill.  The  military,  in  their  fine  uniforms,  formed  the  van. 
About  two  hundred  veterans  of  the  Revolution,  of  whom 
forty  were  survivors  of  the  battle,  rode  in  barouches  next 
to  the  escort.  These  venerable  men,  the  relics  of  a  past 
generation,  with  emaciated  frames,  tottering  limbs,  and 
trembling  voices,  constituted  a  touching  spectacle.  Some 
wore,  as  honorable  decorations,  their  old  fighting  equip- 
ments, and  some  bore  the  scars  of  still  more  honorable 
wounds.  Glistening  eyes  constituted  their  answer  to  the  en- 
thusiastic cheers  of  the  grateful  multitudes  who  lined  their 
pathway  and  cheered  their  progress.  To  this  patriot  band 
succeeded  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument  Association.  Then 
the  Masonic  fraternity,  in  their  splendid  regalia,  thousands 
in  number.  Then  Lafayette,  continually  welcomed  by  tokens 
of  love  and  gratitude,  and  the  invited  guests.  Then  a  long 
array  of  societies,  with  their  various  badges  and  banners. 
It  was  a  splendid  procession,  and  of  such  length  that  the 
front  nearly  reached  Charlestown  Bridge  ere  the  rear  had 
left  Boston  Common.  It  proceeded  to  Breed's  Hill,  where 
the  Grand  Master  of  the  Freemasons,  the  President  of  the 
Monument  Association,  and  General  Lafayette  performed 
the  ceremony  of  laying  the  corner-stone,  in  the  presence  of 
a  vast  concourse  of  people." 


10  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

The  procession  then  moved  to  a  spacious  amphitheatre 
on  the  northern  declivity  of  the  hill,  where  the  following 
address  was  delivered  by  Mr.  Webster,  in  the  presence  of 
as  great  a  multitude  perhaps  as  was  ever  assembled  within 
the  sound  of  a  human  voice.] 

This  uncounted  multitude  before  me  and  around 
me  proves  the  feeling  which  the  occasion  has  excited. 
These  thousands  of  human  faces,  glowing  with  sym- 
pathy and  joy,  and  from  the  impulses  of  a  common 
gratitude  turned  reverently  to  heaven  in  this  spacious 
temple  of  the  firmament,  proclaim  that  the  day,  the 
place,  and  the  purpose  of  our  assembling  have  made 
a  deep  impression  on  our  hearts. 

If,  indeed,  there  be  anything  in  local  association  fit 
to  affect  the  mind  of  man,  we  need  not  strive  to  re- 
press the  emotions  which  agitate  us  here.  We  are 
among  the  sepulchres  of  our  fathers.  We  are  on 
ground  distinguished  by  their  valor,  their  constancy, 
and  the  shedding  of  their  blood.  We  are  here,  not 
to  fix  an  uncertain  date  in  our  annals,  nor  to  draw 
into  notice  an  obscure  and  unknown  spot.  If  our 
humble  purpose  had  never  been  conceived,  if  we  our- 
selves had  never  been  born,  the  17th  of  June,  1775, 
would  have  been  a  day  on  which  all  subsequent  his- 
tory would  have  poured  its  light,  and  the  eminence 
where  we  stand  a  point  of  attraction  to  the  eyes  of 
successive  generations.  But  we  are  Americans.  We 
live  in  what  may  be  called  the  early  age  of  this  great 
continent;  and  we  know  that  our  posterity,  through 
all  time,  are  here  to  enjoy  and  suffer  the  allotments 
of  humanity.  We  see  before  us  a  probable  train  of 
great  events;  we  know  that  our  own  fortunes  have 
been  happily  cast ;  and  it  is  natural,  therefore,  that 


THE    BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  11 

we  should  be  moved  by  the  contemplation  of  occur- 
rences which  have  guided  our  destiny  before  many  of 
us  were  born,  and  settled  the  condition  in  which  we 
should  pass  that  portion  of  our  existence  which  God 
allows  to  men  on  earth. 

We  do  not  read  even  of  the  discovery  of  this  con- 
tinent, without  feeling  something  of  a  personal  inter- 
est in  the  event ;  without  being  .reminded  how  much 
it  has  affected  our  own  fortunes  and  our  own  exist- 
ence. It  would  be  still  more  unnatural  for  us,  there- 
fore, than  for  others,  to  contemplate  with  unaffected 
minds  that  interesting,  I  may  say  that  most  touch- 
ing and  pathetic  scene,  when  the  great  discoverer  of 
America  stood  on  the  deck  of  his  shattered  bark,  the 
shades  of  night  falling  on  the  sea,  yet  no  man  sleep- 
ing ;  tossed  on  the  billows  of  an  unknown  ocean,  yet 
the  stronger  billows  of  alternate  hope  and  despair 
tossing  his  own  troubled  thoughts ;  extending  forward 
his  harassed  frame,  straining  westward  his  anxious 
and  eager  eyes,  till  Heaven  at  last  granted  him  a  mo- 
ment of  rapture  and  ecstasy,  in  blessing  his  vision 
with  the  sight  of  the  unknown  world. 

Nearer  to  our  times,  more  closely  connected  with 
our  fates,  and  therefore  still  more  interesting  to  our 
feelings  and  affections,  is  the  settlement  of  our  own 
country  by  colonists  from  England.  We  cherish  every 
memorial  of  these  worthy  ancestors ;  we  celebrate  their 
patience  and  fortitude ;  we  admire  their  daring  enter- 
prise ;  we  teach  our  children  to  venerate  their  piety ; 
and  we  are  justly  proud  of  being  descended  from 
men  who  have  set  the  world  an  example  of  founding 
civil  institutions  on  the  great  and  united  principles  of 
human  freedom  and  human  knowledge.  To  us,  their 
children,  the  story  of  their  labors  and  sufferings  can 


12  DANIEL  WEBSTER, 

never  be  without  interest.  We  shall  not  stand  un* 
moved  on  the  shore  of  Plymouth,  while  the  sea  con- 
tinues to  wash  it ;  nor  will  our  brethren  in  another 
early  and  ancient  Colony  forget  the  place  of  its  first 
establishment,  till  their  river  shall  cease  to  flow  by  it.^ 
No  vigor  of  youth,  no  maturity  of  manhood,  will  lead 
the  nation  to  forget  the  spots  where  its  infancy  was 
cradled  and  defended. 

But  the  great  event  in  the  history  of  the  continent, 
which  we  are  now  met  here  to  commemorate,  that 
prodigy  of  modern  times,  at  once  the  wonder  and  the 
blessing  of  the  world,  is  the  American  Revolution. 
In  a  day  of  extraordinary  prosperity  and  happiness, 
of  high  national  honor,  distinction,  and  power,  we  are 
brought  together,  in  this  place,  by  our  love  of  country, 
by  our  admiration  of  exalted  character,  by  our  grati- 
tude for  signal  services  and  patriotic  devotion. 

The  Society  whose  organ  I  am  ^  was  formed  for  the 
purpose  of  rearing  some  honorable  and  durable  monu- 
ment to  the  memory  of  the  early  friends  of  American 
Independence.  They  have  thought  that  for  this  ob- 
ject no  time  could  be  more  propitious  than  the  present 
prosperous  and  peaceful  period ;  that  no  place  could 

1  An  interesting  account  of  the  voyage  of  the  early  emigrants 
to  the  Maryland  Colony,  and  of  its  settlement,  is  given  in  the 
official  report  of  Father  White,  written  probably  within  the  first 
month  after  the  landing  at  St.  Mary's.  The  original  Latin  man- 
uscript is  still  preserved  among  the  archives  of  the  Jesuits  at 
Rome.  The  Ark  and  the  Dove  are  remembered  with  scarcely 
less  interest  by  the  descendants  of  the  sister  colony,  than  is  the 
Mayflower  in  New  England,  which  thirteen  years  earlier,  at  the 
same  season  of  the  year,  bore  thither  the  Pilgrim  Fathers. 

2  Mr.  Webster  was  at  this  time  President  of  the  Bunker  Hill 
Monument  Association,  chosen  on  the  death  of  Governor  Johu 
Brooks,  the  first  President. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  13 

claim  preference  over  this  memorable  spot ;  and  that 
no  day  could  be  more  auspicious  to  the  undertaking 
than  the  anniversary  of  the  battle  which  was  here 
fought.  The  foundation  of  that  monument  we  hav€ 
now  laid.  With  solemnities  suited  to  the  occasion, 
with  prayers  to  Almighty  God  for  his  blessing,  and  in 
the  midst  of  this  cloud  of  witnesses,  we  have  begun 
the  work.  We  trust  it  will  be  prosecuted,  and  that, 
springing  from  a  broad  foundation,  rising  high  in  mas- 
sive solidity  and  unadorned  grandeur,  it  may  remain 
as  long  as  Heaven  permits  the  works  of  man  to  last, 
a  fit  emblem,  both  of  the  events  in  memory  of  which 
it  is  raised,  and  of  the  gratitude  of  those  who  have 
reared  it. 

We  know,  indeed,  that  the  record  of  illustrious  ac- 
tions is  most  safely  deposited  in  the  universal  remem- 
brance of  mankind.  W^e  know,  that  if  we  could  cause 
this  structure  to  ascend,  not  only  till  it  reached  the 
skies,  but  till  it  pierced  them,  its  broad  surfaces  could 
still  contain  but  part  of  that  which,  in  an  age  of  know- 
ledge, hath  already  been  spread  over  the  earth,  and 
which  history  charges  itself  with  making  known  to  all 
future  times.  We  know  that  no  inscription  on  entab- 
latures less  broad  than  the  earth  itself  can  carry  in- 
formation of  the  events  we  commemorate  where  it  has 
not  already  gone ;  and  that  no  structure,  which  shall 
not  outlive  the  duration  of  letters  and  knowledge 
among  men,  can  prolong  the  memorial.  But  our  ob- 
ject is,  by  this  edifice,  to  show  our  own  deep  sense  of 
the  value  and  importance  of  the  achievements  of  our 
ancestors  ;  and,  by  presenting  this  work  of  gratitude 
to  the  eye,  to  keep  alive  similar  sentiments,  and  to 
foster  a  constant  regard  for  the  principles  of  the  Eev- 
olution.     Human  beings  are  composed,  not  of  reason 


14  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

only,  but  of  imagination  also,  and  sentiment ;  and  that 
is  neither  wasted  nor  misapplied  which  is  appropri- 
ated to  the  purpose  of  giving  right  direction  to  senti- 
ments, and  opening  proper  springs  of  feeling  in  the 
heart.  Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  our  object  is  to 
perpetuate  national  hostility,  or  even  to  cherish  a  mere 
military  spirit.  It  is  higher,  purer,  nobler.  We  con- 
secrate our  work  to  the  spirit  of  national  indepen- 
dence, and  we  wish  that  the  light  of  peace  may  rest 
upon  it  for  ever.  We  rear  a  memorial  of  our  convic- 
tion of  that  unmeasured  benefit  which  has  been  con- 
ferred on  our  own  land,  and  of  the  happy  influences 
which  have  been  produced,  by  the  same  events,  on  the 
general  interests  of  mankind.  We  come,  as  Ameri- 
cans, to  mark  a  spot  which  must  forever  be  dear  to  us 
and  our  posterity.  We  wish  that  whosoever,  in  all 
coming  time,  shall  turn  his  eye  hither,  may  behold 
that  the  place  is  not  undistinguished  where  the  first 
great  battle  of  the  Revolution  was  fought.  We  wish 
that  this  structure  may  proclaim  the  magnitude  and 
importance  of  that  event  to  every  class  and  every  age. 
We  wish  that  infancy  may  learn  the  purpose  of  its 
erection  from  maternal  lips,  and  that  weary  and  with- 
ered age  may  behold  it,  and  be  solaced  by  the  recol- 
lections which  it  suggests.  We  wish  that  labor  may 
look  up  here,  and  be  proud,  in  the  midst  of  its  toil. 
We  wish  that,  in  those  days  of  disaster,  which,  as  they 
come  upon  all  nations,  must  be  expected  to  come  upon 
us  also,  desponding  patriotism  may  turn  its  eyes  hith- 
erward,  and  be  assured  that  the  foundations  of  our 
national  power  are  still  strong.  We  wish  that  this 
column,  rising  towards  heaven  among  the  pointed 
spires  of  so  many  temples  dedicated  to  God,  may  con- 
tribute also  to  produce,  in  all  minds,  a  pious  feeling 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  15 

of  dependence  and  gratitude.  We  wish,  finally,  that 
the  last  object  to  the  sight  of  him  who  leaves  his  na- 
tive shore,  and  the  first  to  gladden  him  who  revisits  it, 
may  be  something  which  shall  remind  him  of  the  lib- 
erty and  the  glory  of  his  country.  Let  it  rise  !  let  it 
rise,  till  it  meet  the  sun  in  his  coming ;  let  the  earliest 
light  of  the  morning  gild  it,  and  parting  day  linger 
and  play  on  its  summit. 

We  live  in  a  most  extraordinary  age.  Events  so 
various  and  so  important  that  they  might  crowd  and 
disting:iish  centuries  are,  in  our  times,  compressed 
within  the  compass  of  a  single  life.  When  has  it 
happened  that  history  has  had  so  much  to  record,  in 
the  same  term  of  years,  as  since  the  17th  of  June, 
1775  ?  Our  own  revolution,  which,  under  other  cir- 
cumstances, might  itself  have  been  expected  to  occa- 
sion a  war  of  half  a  century,  has  been  achieved ; 
twenty-four  sovereign  and  independent  States  erected ; 
and  a  general  government  established  over  them,  so 
safe,  so  wise,  so  free,  so  practical,  that  we  might  well 
wonder  its  establishment  should  have  been  accom- 
plished so  soon,  were  it  not  far  the  greater  wonder 
that  it  should  have  been  established  at  all.  Two  or 
three  millions  of  people  have  been  augmented  to 
twelve,  the  great  forests  of  the  West  prostrated  be- 
neath the  arm  of  successful  industry,  and  the  dwellers 
on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio  and  the  Mississippi  become 
the  fellow-citizens  and  neighbors  of  those  who  culti- 
vate the  hills  of  New  England.^  We  have  a  commerce 
1  That  which  was  spoken  of  figuratively  in  1825  has,  in  tlie 
lapse  of  a  quarter  of  a  century,  by  the  introduction  of  railroads 
and  telegraphic  lines,  become  a  reality.  It  is  an  interesting 
circumstance,  that  the  first  railroad  on  the  Western  Continent 
was  constructed  for  the  purpose  of  accelerating  the  erection  of 
this  monument.  —  Edward  Everett,  in  1851. 


15  DANIEL  WEBSTER.  ' 

that  leaves  no  sea  unexplored  ;  navies  whicli  take  no 
law  from  superior  force  ;  revenues  adequate  to  all  the 
exigencies  of  government,  almost  without  taxation; 
and  peace  with  all  nations,  founded  on  equal  rights 
and  nnitual  respect. 

Europe,  within  the  same  period,  has  been  agitated 
by  a  mighty  revolution,  which,  while  it  has  been  felt 
in  the  individual  condition  and  happiness  of  almost 
every  man,  has  shaken  to  the  centre  her  political  fab- 
ric, and  dashed  against  one  another  thrones  which 
had  stood  tranquil  for  ages.  On  this,  our  continent, 
our  own  example  has  been  followed,  and  colonies  have 
spi-ung  up  to  be  nations.  Unaccustomed  sounds  of 
liberty  and  free  government  have  reached  us  from  be- 
yond the  track  of  the  sun ;  and  at  this  moment  the 
dominion  of  European  power  in  this  continent,  from 
the  place  where  we  stand  to  the  south  pole,  is  annihil- 
ated for  ever.^ 

In  the  mean  time,  both  in  Europe  and  America, 
such  has  been  the  general  progress  of  knowledge,  such 
the  improvement  in  legislation,  in  commerce,  in  the 
arts,  in  letters,  and,  above  all,  in  liberal  ideas  and  the 
general  spirit  of  the  age,  that  the  whole  world  seems 
changed. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  that  this  is  but  a  faint  ab- 
stract of  the  things  which  have  happened  since  the  day 
of  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  we  are  but  fifty  years 
removed  from  it ;  and  we  now  stand  here  to  enjoy  all 
the  blessings  of  our  own  condition,  and  to  look  abroad 
on  the  brightened  prospects  of  the  world,  while  we 
still  have  among  us  some  of  those  who  were  active 
agents  in  the  scenes  of  1775,  and  who  are  now  here, 

^  This  has  special  reference  to  the  Monroe  Doctrine,  then 
fresh  in  the  minds  of  Mr.  Webster  and  his  hearers. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  17 

from  every  quarter  of  New  England,  to  visit  once  more, 
and  under  circumstances  so  affecting,  I  had  almost 
said  so  overwhelming,  this  renowned  theatre  of  their 
courage  and  patriotism. 

Venerable  men  !  you  have  come  down  to  ns  from  a 
former  generation.  Heaven  has  bounteously  length- 
ened out  your  lives,  that  you  might  behold  this  joyous 
day.  You  are  now  where  you  stood  fifty  years  ago, 
this  very  hour,  with  your  brothers  and  your  neighbors? 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  in  the  strife  for  your  country. 
Behold,  how  altered  !  The  same  heavens  are  indeed 
over  your  heads ;  the  same  ocean  rolls  at  your  feet ; 
but  all  else  how  changed !  You  hear  now  no  roar  of 
hostile  cannon,  you  see  no  mixed  volumes  of  smoke  and 
flame  rising  from  burning  Charlestown.  The  ground 
strewed  with  the  dead  and  the  dying ;  the  impetuous 
charge ;  the  steady  and  successful  repulse ;  the  loud 
call  to  repeated  assault ;  the  summoning  of  all  that  is 
manly  to  repeated  resistance  ;  a  thousand  bosoms 
freely  and  fearlessly  bared  in  an  instant  to  whatever 
of  terror  there  may  be  in  war  and  death ;  —  all  these 
you  have  witnessed,  but  you  witness  them  no  more. 
All  is  peace.  The  heights  of  yonder  metropolis, 
its  towers  and  roofs,  which  you  then  saw  filled  with 
wives  and  children  and  countrymen  in  distress  and 
terror,  and  looking  with  unutterable  emotions  for  the 
issue  of  the  combat,  have  presented  you  to-day  with 
the  sight  of  its  whole  happy  population,  come  out  to 
welcome  and  greet  you  with  a  universal  jubilee.  Yon- 
der proud  ships,  by  a  felicity  of  position  appropriately 
lying  at  the  foot  of  this  mount,  and  seeming  fondly  to 
cling  around  it,  are  not  means  of  annoyance  to  you, 
but   your  country's   own   means   of   distinction   and 


18  DANIEL  WEBSTER, 

defence.^  All  is  peace ;  and  God  has  granted  you 
this  sight  of  your  country's  happiness,  ere  you  slumber 
in  the  grave.  He  has  allowed  you  to  behold  and  to 
partake  the  reward  of  your  patriotic  toils ;  and  he  has 
allowed  us,  your  sons  and  countrymen,  to  meet  you 
here,  and  in  the  name  of  the  present  generation,  in  the 
name  of  your  country,  in  the  name  of  liberty,  to  thank 
you! 

But,  alas  !  you  are  not  all  here !  Time  and  the 
sword  have  thinned  your  ranks.  Prescott,  Putnam, 
Stark,  Brooks,  Kead,  Pomeroy,  Bridge !  our  eyes  seek 
for  you  in  vain  amid  this  broken  band.  You  are 
gathered  to  your  fathers,  and  live  only  to  your  coun- 
try in  her  grateful  remembrance  and  your  own  bright 
example.  But  let  us  not  too  much  grieve,  that  you 
have  met  the  common  fate  of  men.  You  lived  at 
least  long  enough  to  know  that  your  work  had  been 
nobly  and  successfully  accomplished.  You  lived  to 
see  your  country's  independence  established,  and  to 
sheathe  your  swords  from  war.  On  the  light  of  Lib- 
erty you  saw  arise  the  light  of  Peace,  like 

"  another  morn, 
Risen  on  mid-noon  ; " 

and  the  sky  on  which  you  closed  your  eyes  was  cloud- 
less. 

But,  ah !  Him !  the  first  great  martyr  in  this  great 
cause  !  Him  !  the  premature  victim  of  his  own  self- 
devoting  heart !  Him  !  the  head  of  our  civil  councils, 
and  the  destined  leader  of  our  military  bands,  whom 
nothing  brought  hither  but  the  unquenchable  fire  of 
bis  own  spirit !     Him  !  cut  off  by  Providence  in  the 

*  It  is  necessary  to  inform  those  only  who  are  unacquainted 
with  the  localities,  that  the  United  States  Mavy  Yard  at 
Charlestown  is  situated  at  the  base  of  Bunker  Hill. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  19 

hour  of  overwhelming  anxiety  and  thick  gloom ;  fall- 
ing ere  he  saw  the  star  of  his  country  rise ;  pouring 
out  his  generous  blood  like  water,  before  he  knew 
whether  it  would  fertilize  a  land  of  freedom  or  of 
bondage !  —  how  shall  I  struggle  with  the  emotions 
that  stifle  the  utterance  of  thy  name  I  ^  Our  poor 
work  may  perish  ;  but  thine  shall  endure  !  This  mon- 
ument may  moulder  away  ;  the  solid  ground  it  rests 
upon  may  sink  down  to  a  level  with  the  sea ;  but  thy 
memory  shall  not  fail !  Wheresoever  among  men  a 
heart  shall  be  found  that  beats  to  the  transports  of 
patriotism  and  liberty,  its  aspirations  shall  be  to  claim 
kindred  with  thy  spirit. 

But  the  scene  amidst  which  we  stand  does  not  per- 
mit us  to  confine  our  thoughts  or  our  sympathies  to 
those  fearless  spirits  who  hazarded  or  lost  their  lives 
on  this  consecrated  spot.  We  have  the  happiness  to 
rejoice  here  in  the  presence  of  a  most  worthy  repre- 
sentation of  the  survivors  of  the  whole  Revolutionary 
army. 

Veterans  !  you  are  the  remnant  of  many  a  well- 
fought  field.  You  bring  with  you  marks  of  honor 
from  Trenton  and  Monmouth,  from  Yorktown,  Cam- 
den, Bennington,  and  Saratoga.  Veterans  of  half 
A  century!  when  in  your  youthful  days  you  put 
^very  thing  at  hazard  in  your  country's  cause,  good  as 
that  cause  was,  and  sanguine  as  youth  is,  still  your 
fondest  hopes  did  not  stretch  onward  to  an  hour  like 
this  !  At  a  period  to  which  you  could  not  reasonably 
have  expected  to  arrive,  at  a  moment  of  national  pros- 
perity such  as  you  could  never  have  foreseen,  you  are 
now  met  here  to  enjoy  the  fellowship  of  old  soldiers, 
and  to  receive  the  overflowings  of  a  universal  gratitude. 

1  The  name  of  Joseph  Warren  was  very  dear  to  Americans 
of  Webster's  day. 


20  DANIEL  WEBSTER, 

But  your  agitated  countenances  and  your  Leaving 
breasts  inform  me  that  even  this  is  not  an  unmixed 
joy.  I  perceive  that  a  tumult  of  contending  feelings 
rushes  upon  you.  The  images  of  the  dead,  as  well 
as  the  persons  of  the  living,  present  themselves  before 
you.  The  scene  overwhelms  you,  and  I  turn  from  it. 
May  the  Father  of  all  mercies  smile  upon  your  declin- 
ing years,  and  bless  them  !  And  when  you  shall  here 
have  exchanged  your  embraces,  when  you  shall  once 
more  have  pressed  the  hands  which  have  been  so  often 
extended  to  give  succor  in  adversity,  or  grasped  in 
the  exultation  of  victory,  then  look  abroad  upon  this 
lovely  land  which  your  young  valor  defended,  and 
mark  the  happiness  with  which  it  is  filled ;  yea,  look 
abroad  upon  the  whole  earth,  and  see  what  a  name  you 
have  contributed  to  give  to  your  country,  and  what 
a  praise  you  have  added  to  freedom,  and  then  rejoice 
in  the  sympathy  and  gratitude  which  beam  upon  your 
last  days  from  the  improved  condition  of  mankind ! 

The  occasion  does  not  require  of  me  any  particular 
account  of  the  battle  of  the  17th  of  June,  1775,  nor 
any  detailed  narrative  of  the  events  which  immedi- 
ately preceded  it.  These  are  familiarly  known  to  all. 
In  the  progress  of  the  great  and  interesting  contro- 
versy, Massachusetts  and  the  town  of  Boston  had  be- 
come early  and  marked  objects  of  the  displeasure  of 
the  British  Parliament,  This  had  been  manifested 
in  the  act  for  altering  the  government  of  the  Pro- 
vince, and  in  that  for  shutting  up  the  port  of  Boston. 
Nothing  sheds  more  honor  on  our  early  history,  and 
nothing  better  shows  how  little  the  feelings  and  sen- 
timents of  the  Colonies  were  known  or  regarded  in 
England,  than  the  impression  which  these  measures 
everywhere  produced  in  America.     It  had  been  anti- 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  21 

eipated,  that  while  the  Colonies  in  general  would  be 
terrified  by  the  severity  of  the  punishment  inflicted 
on  Massachusetts,  the  other  seaports  would  be  gov- 
erned by  a  mere  spirit  of  gain ;  and  that,  as  Boston 
was  now  cut  off  from  all  commerce,  the  unexpected 
advantage  which  this  blow  on  her  was  calculated  to 
confer  on  other  towns  would  be  greedily  enjoyed. 
How  miserably  such  reasoners  deceived  themselves ! 
How  little  they  knew  of  the  depth,  and  the  strength, 
and  the  intenseness  of  that  feeling  of  resistance  to 
illegal  acts  of  power,  which  possessed  the  whole  Amer- 
ican people !  Everywhere  the  unworthy  boon  was 
rejected  with  scorn.  The  fortunate  occasion  was 
seized,  everywhere,  to  show  to  the  whole  world  that 
the  Colonies  were  swayed  by  no  local  interest,  no  par^ 
tial  interest,  no  selfish  interest.  The  temptation  to 
profit  by  the  punishment  of  Boston  was  strongest  to 
our  neighbors  of  Salem.  Yet  Salem  was  precisely 
the  place  where  this  miserable  proffer  was  spurned, 
in  a  tone  of  the  most  lofty  self-respect  and  the  most 
indignant  patriotism.  "We  are  deeply  affected," 
said  its  inhabitants,  "with  the  sense  of  our  publia 
calamities ;  but  the  miseries  that  are  now  rapidly  has^ 
tening  on  our  brethren  in  the  capital  of  the  Province 
greatly  excite  our  commiseration.  By  shutting  up  th^ 
port  of  Boston  some  imagine  that  the  course  of  trade 
might  be  turned  hither  and  to  our  benefit ;  but  we 
must  be  dead  to  every  idea  of  justice,  lost  to  all  feel 
ings  of  humanity,  could  we  indulge  a  thought  to  seize 
on  wealth  and  raise  our  fortunes  on  the  ruin  of  our 
suffering  neighbors."  These  noble  sentiments  were 
not  confined  to  our  immediate  vicinity.  In  that  day 
of  general  affection  and  brotherhood,  the  blow  given 
to  Boston  smote  on  every  patriotic  heart  from  one 


22  DANIEL  WEBSTER, 

end  o£  the  country  to  the  other.  Virginia  and  the 
Carolinas,  as  well  as  Connecticut  and  New  Hampshire, 
felt  and  proclaimed  the  cause  to  be  their  own.  The 
Continental  Congress,  then  holding  its  first  session  in 
Philadelphia,  expressed  its  sympathy  for  the  suffering 
inhabitants  of  Boston,  and  addresses  were  received 
from  all  quarters,  assuring  them  that  the  cause  was  a 
common  one,  and  should  be  met  by  common  efforts 
and  common  sacrifices.  The  Congress  of  Massachu- 
setts responded  to  these  assurances  ;  and  in  an  address 
to  the  Congress  at  Philadelphia,  bearing  the  official 
signature,  perhaps  among  the  last,  of  the  immortal 
Warren,  notwithstanding  the  severity  of  its  suffering 
and  the  magnitude  of  the  dangers  which  threatened  it, 
it  was  declared  that  this  Colony  "  is  ready,  at  all  times, 
to  spend  and  to  be  spent  in  the  cause  of  America." 

But  the  hour  drew  nigh  which  was  to  put  profes- 
sions to  the  proof,  and  to  determine  whether  the  au- 
thors of  these  mutual  pledges  were  ready  to  seal  them 
in  blood.  The  tidings  of  Lexington  and  Concord  had 
no  sooner  spread,  than  it  was  universally  felt  that  the 
time  was  at  last  come  for  action.  A  spirit  pervaded 
all  ranks,  not  transient,  not  boisterous,  but  deep,  sol- 
emn, determined,  — 

"  Totamque  infusa  per  artus 
Mens  agitat  molem,  et  magno  se  corpore  miscet."  ^ 

War  on  their  own  soil  and  at  their  own  doors,  was, 
indeed,  a  strange  work  to  the  yeomanry  of  New  Eng- 
land ;  but  their  consciences  were  convinced  of  its  ne- 
cessity, their  country  called  them  to  it,  and  they  did 
not  withhold  themselves  from  the  perilous  trial.     The 

^  "  And  a  Mind ,  diffused  throughout  the  members,  gives  en* 
ergy  to  the  whole  mass,  and  mingles  with  the  vast  body." 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  23 

ordinary  occupations  of  life  were  abandoned ;  the 
plough  was  stayed  in  the  unfinished  furrow ;  wives 
gave  up  their  husbands,  and  mothers  gave  up  their 
sons,  to  the  battles  of  a  civil  war.  Death  might  come 
in  honor,  on  the  field  ;  it  might  come,  in  disgrace,  on 
the  scaffold.  For  either  and  for  both  they  were  pre- 
pared. The  sentiment  of  Quincy  was  full  in  their 
hearts.  "  Blandishments,"  said  that  distinguished  son 
of  genius  and  patriotism,  "  will  not  fascinate  us,  nor 
will  threats  of  a  halter  intimidate  ;  for.  under  God, 
we  are  determined,  that,  wheresoever,  whensoever,  or 
hov/soever,  we  shall  be  called  to  make  our  exit,  we  will 
die  free  men." 

The  17th  of  June  saw  the  four  New  England  Colo- 
nies standing  here,  side  by  side,  to  triumph  or  to  fall 
together ;  and  there  was  with  them  from  that  moment 
to  the  end  of  the  war,  what  I  hope  will  remain  with 
them  for  ever,  —  one  cause,  one  country,  one  heart. 

The  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  was  attended  with  the 
most  important  effects  beyond  its  immediate  results  as 
a  military  engagement.  It  created  at  once  a  state  of 
open,  public  war.  There  could  now  be  no  longer  a 
question  of  proceeding  against  individuals,  as  guilty 
of  treason  or  rebellion.  That  fearful  crisis  was  past. 
The  appeal  lay  to  the  sword,  and  the  only  question 
was,  whether  the  spirit  and  the  resources  of  the  people 
would  hold  out  till  the  object  should  be  accomplished. 
Nor  were  its  general  consequences  confined  to  our  own 
country.  The  previous  proceedings  of  the  Colonies, 
their  appeals,  resolutions,  and  addresses,  had  made 
their  cause  known  to  Europe.  Without  boasting,  we 
may  say,  that  in  no  age  or  country  has  the  public 
cause  been  maintained  with  more  force  of  argument, 
more  power  of  illustration,  or  more  of  that  persuasion 


24  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

which  excited  feeling  and  elevated  principle  can  alone 
bestow,  than  the  Revolutionary  state  papers  exhibit. 
These  papers  will  forever  deserve  to  be  studied,  not 
only  for  the  spirit  which  they  breathe,  but  for  the 
ability  with  which  they  were  written. 

To  this  able  vindication  of  their  cause,  the  Colonies 
had  now  added  a  practical  and  severe  proof  of  their 
own  true  devotion  to  it,  and  given  evidence  also  of  the 
power  which  they  could  bring  to  its  support.  All  now 
saw,  that  if  America  fell,  she  would  not  fall  without  a 
struggle.  Men  felt  sympathy  and  regard,  as  well  as 
surprise,  when  they  beheld  these  infant  states,  remote, 
unknown,  unaided,  encounter  the  power  of  England, 
and,  in  the  first  considerable  battle,  leave  more  of  their 
enemies  dead  on  the  field,  in  proportion  to  the  number 
of  combatants,  than  had  been  recently  known  to  fall 
in  the  wars  of  Europe. 

Information  of  these  events,  circulating  throughout 
the  world,  at  length  reached  the  ears  of  one  who  now 
hears  me.^  He  has  not  forgotten  the  emotion  which 
the  fame  of  Bunker  Hill,  and  the  name  of  Warren, 
excited  in  his  youthful  breast. 

Sir,  we  are  assembled  to  commemorate  the  establish- 
ment of  great  public  principles  of  liberty,  and  to  do 
honor  to  the  distinguished  dead.  The  occasion  is  too 
severe  for  eulogy  of  the  living.  But,  Sir,  your  inter- 
esting relation  to  this  country,  the  peculiar  circum« 
stances  which  surround  you  and  surround  us,  call  on 
me  to  express  the  happiness  which  we  derive  from 
your  presence  and  aid  in  this  solemn  commemoration. 

^  Among  the  earliest  of  the  arrangements  for  the  celebration 
of  the  17th  of  June,  1825,  was  the  invitation  to  General  La- 
fayette to  be  present  ;  and  be  had  so  timed  his  progress  through 
the  other  States  as  to  return  to  Massachusetts  in  season  for  the 
great  occasion. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  25 

Fortunate,  fortunate  man !  with  what  measure  of 
devotion  will  you  not  thank  God  for  the  circumstances 
of  your  extraordinary  life !  You  are  connected  with 
both  hemispheres  and  with  two  generations.  Heaven 
saw  fit  to  ordain  that  the  electric  spark  of  liberty 
should  be  conducted,  through  you,  from  the  New 
World  to  the  Old ;  and  we,  who  are  now  here  to  per- 
form this  duty  of  patriotism,  have  all  of  us  long  ago 
received  it  in  charge  from  our  fathers  to  cherish  your 
name  and  your  virtues.  You  will  account  it  an  in- 
stance of  your  good  fortune.  Sir,  that  you  crossed  the 
seas  to  visit  us  at  a  time  which  enables  you  to  be  pres- 
ent at  this  solemnity.  You  now  behold  the  field,  the 
renown  of  which  reached  you  in  the  heart  of  France, 
and  caused  a  thrill  in  your  ardent  bosom.  You  see 
the  lines  of  the  little  redoubt  thrown  up  by  the  incred- 
ible diligence  of  Prescott;  defended,  to  the  last  ex- 
tremity, by  his  lion-hearted  valor ;  and  within  which 
the  corner-stone  of  our  monument  has  now  taken  its 
position.  You  see  where  Warren  fell,  and  where 
Parker,  Gardner,  McCleary,  Moore,  and  other  early 
patriots  fell  with  him.  Those  who  survived  that  day, 
and  whose  lives  have  been  prolonged  to  the  present 
hour,  are  now  around  you.  Some  of  them  you  have 
known  in  the  trying  scenes  of  the  war.  Behold !  they 
now  stretch  forth  their  feeble  arms  to  embrace  you. 
Behold!  they  raise  their  trembling  voices  to  invoke 
the  blessing  of  God  on  you  and  yours  forever. 

Sir,  you  have  assisted  us  in  laying  the  foundation 
of  this  structure.  You  have  heard  us  rehearse,  with 
our  feeble  commendation,  the  names  of  departed  patri- 
ots. Monuments  and  eulogy  belong  to  the  dead.  We 
give  then  this  day  to  Warren  and  his  associates.  On 
other  occasions  they  have  been  given  to  your  more 


26  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

immediate  companions  in  arms,  to  Washington,  to 
Greene,  to  Gates,  to  Sullivan,  and  to  Lincoln.  We 
have  become  reluctant  to  grant  these,  our  highest  and 
last  honors,  further.  We  would  gladly  hold  them  yet 
back  from  the  little  remnant  of  that  immortal  band* 
"  Serus  in  coelum  redeas^  ^  Illustrious  as  are  your 
merits,  yet  far,  O,  very  far  distant  be  the  day,  when 
any  inscription  shall  bear  your  name,  or  any  tongue 
pronounce  its  eulogy ! 

The  leading  reflection  to  which  this  occasion  seems 
to  invite  us,  respects  the  great  changes  which  have 
happened  in  the  fifty  years  since  the  battle  of  Bunker 
Hill  was  fought.  And  it  peculiarly  marks  the  char- 
acter of  the  present  age,  that,  in  looking  at  these 
changes,  and  in  estimating  their  effect  on  our  condi- 
tion, we  are  obliged  to  consider,  not  what  has  been 
done  in  our  country  only,  but  in  others  also.  In  these 
interesting  times,  while  nations  are  making  separate 
and  individual  advances  in  improvement,  they  make, 
too,  a  common  progress ;  like  vessels  on  a  common 
tide,  propelled  by  the  gales  at  different  rates,  accord- 
ing to  their  several  structure  and  management,  but  all 
moved  forward  by  one  mighty  current,  strong  enough 
to  bear  onward  whatever  does  not  sink  beneath  it. 

A  chief  distinction  of  the  present  day  is  a  commun- 
ity of  opinions  and  knowledge  amongst  men  in  differ- 
ent nations,  existing  in  a  degree  heretofore  unknowuc 
Knowledge  has,  in  our  time,  triumphed,  and  is  tri- 
umphing, over  distance,  over  difference  of  languages, 
over  diversity  of  habits,  over  prejudice,  and  over  big- 
otry. The  civilized  and  Christian  world  is  fast  learn- 
ing the  great  lesson,  that  difference  of  nation  does  not 
imply  necessary  hostility,  and  that  all  contact  need  not 
^  "Late  may  you  return  to  heaven." 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  27 

be  war.  The  whole  world  is  becoming  a  common  field 
for  intellect  to  act  in.  Energy  of  mind,  genius^  power, 
wheresoever  it  exists,  may  speak  out  in  any  tongue, 
and  the  world  will  hear  it.  A  great  chord  of  senti- 
ment and  feeling  runs  through  two  continents,  and 
vibrates  over  both.  Every  breeze  wafts  intelligence 
from  country  to  country,  every  wave  rolls  it ;  all  give 
it  forth,  and  all  in  turn  receive  it.  There  is  a  vast 
commerce  of  ideas ;  there  are  marts  and  exchanges  for 
intellectual  discoveries,  and  a  wonderful  fellowship  of 
those  individual  intelligences  which  make  up  the  mind 
and  opinion  of  the  age.  Mind  is  the  great  lever  of 
all  things  ;  human  thought  is  the  process  by  which 
human  ends  are  ultimately  answered ;  and  the  diffu- 
sion of  knowledge,  so  astonishing  in  the  last  half- 
century,  has  rendered  innumerable  minds,  variously 
gifted  by  nature,  competent  to  be  competitors  or  fellow- 
workers  on  the  theatre  of  intellectual  operation. 

From  these  causes  important  improvements  have 
taken  place  in  the  personal  condition  of  individuals. 
Generally  speaking,  mankind  are  not  only  better  fed 
and  better  clothed,  but  they  are  able  also  to  enjoy 
more  leisure  ;  they  possess  more  refinement  and  more 
self-respect.  A  superior  tone  of  education,  manners, 
and  habits  prevails.  This  remark,  most  true  in  its 
application  to  our  own  country,  is  also  partly  true 
when  applied  elsewhere.  It  is  proved  by  the  vastly 
augmented  consumption  of  those  articles  of  manufac- 
ture and  of  commerce  which  contribute  to  the  comforts 
and  the  decencies  of  life ;  an  augmentation  which  has 
far  outrun  the  progress  of  population.  And  while  the 
unexampled  and  almost  incredible  use  of  machinery 
would  seem  to  supply  the  place  of  labor,  labor  still 
finds  its  occupation  and  its  reward;   so  wisely  has 


28  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

Providence  adjusted  men's  wants  and  desires  to  their 
condition  and  their  capacity. 

Any  adequate  survey,  however,  of  the  progress  made 
during  the  last  half-century  in  the  polite  and  the  me« 
chanic  arts,  in  machinery  and  manufactures,  in  com- 
merce and  agriculture,  in  letters  and  in  science,  would 
require  volumes.  I  must  abstain  wholly  from  these 
subjects,  and  turn  for  a  moment  to  the  contemplation 
of  what  has  been  done  on  the  great  question  of  poli- 
tics and  government.  This  is  the  master  topic  of  the 
age  ;  and  during  the  whole  fifty  years  it  has  intensely 
occupied  the  thoughts  of  men.  The  nature  of  civil 
government,  its  ends  and  uses,  have  been  canvassed 
and  investigated;  ancient  opinions  attacked  and  de- 
fended ;  new  ideas  recommended  and  resisted,  by 
whatever  power  the  mind  of  man  could  bring  to  the 
controversy.  From  the  closet  and  the  public  halls  the 
debate  has  been  transferred  to  the  field  ;  and  the  world 
has  been  shaken  by  wars  of  unexampled  magnitude, 
and  the  greatest  variety  of  fortune.  A  day  of  peace 
has  at  length  succeeded  ;  and  now  that  the  strife  has 
subsided,  and  the  smoke  cleared  away,  we  may  be- 
gin to  see  what  has  actually  been  done,  permanently 
changing  the  state  and  condition  of  human  society. 
And,  without  dwelling  on  particular  circumstances,  it 
is  most  apparent,  that,  from  the  before-mentioned 
causes  of  augmented  knowledge  and  improved  indi- 
vidual condition,  a  real,  substantial,  and  important 
change  has  taken  place,  and  is  taking  place,  highly 
favorable,  on  the  whole,  to  human  liberty  and  human 
happiness. 

The  great  wheel  of  political  revolution  began  to 
move  in  America.  Here  its  rotation  was  guarded, 
regular,  and  safe.    Transferred  to  the  other  continent, 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT,  29 

from  unfortunate  but  natural  causes,  it  received  an 
irregular  and  violent  impulse ;  it  whirled  along  with 
a  fearful  celerity ;  till  at  length,  like  the  chariot- 
wheels  in  the  races  of  antiquity,  it  took  fire  from  the 
rapidity  of  its  own  motion,  and  blazed  onward,  spread- 
ing conflagration  and  terror  around. 

We  learn  from  the  result  of  this  experiment,  how 
fortunate  was  our  own  condition,  and  how  admirably 
the  character  of  our  people  was  calculated  for  setting 
the  great  example  of  popular  governments.  The  pos- 
session of  power  did  not  turn  the  heads  of  the  Amer- 
can  people,  for  they  had  long  been  in  the  habit  of  ex- 
ercising a  great  degree  of  self-control.  Although  the 
paramount  authority  of  the  parent  state  existed  over 
them,  yet  a  large  field  of  legislation  had  always  been 
open  to  our  Colonial  assemblies.  They  were  accus- 
tomed to  representative  bodies  and  the  forms  of  free 
government ;  they  understood  the  doctrine  of  the  divi- 
sion of  power  among  different  branches,  and  the  neces- 
sity of  checks  on  each.  The  character  of  our  country- 
men, moreover,  was  sober,  moral,  and  religious ;  and 
there  was  little  in  the  change  to  shock  their  feelings 
of  justice  and  humanity,  or  even  to  disturb  an  honest 
prejudice.  We  had  no  domestic  throne  to  overturn, 
no  privileged  orders  to  cast  down,  no  violent  changes 
of  property  to  encounter.  In  the  American  Revolu' 
tion,  no  man  sought  or  wished  for  more  than  to  de* 
fend  and  enjoy  his  own.  None  hoped  for  plunder  ol 
for  spoil.  Rapacity  was  unknown  to  it ;  the  axe  waa 
not  among  the  instruments  of  its  accomplishment ;  and 
we  all  know  that  it  could  not  have  lived  a  single  day 
under  any  well-founded  imputation  of  possessing  a 
tendency  adverse  to  the  Christian  religion. 

It  need  not  surprise  us,  that,  under  circumstances 


30  DANIEL  WEBSTER, 

less  auspicious,  political  revolutions  elsewhere,  even 
when  well  intended,  have  terminated  differently.  It 
is,  indeed,  a  great  achievement,  it  is  the  masterwork 
of  the  world,  to  establish  governments  entirely  popu- 
lar on  lasting  foundations ;  nor  is  it  easy,  indeed,  to 
introduce  the  popular  principle  at  all  into  govern- 
ments to  which  it  has  been  altogether  a  stranger.  It 
cannot  be  doubted,  however,  that  Europe  has  come' 
out  of  the  contest,  in  which  she  has  been  so  long  en- 
gaged, with  greatly  superior  knowledge,  and,  in  many 
respects,  in  a  highly  improved  condition.  Whatever 
benefit  has  been  acquired  is  likely  to  be  retained,  for 
it  consists  mainly  in  the  acquisition  of  more  enlight- 
ened ideas.  And  although  kingdoms  and  provinces 
may  be  wrested  from  the  hands  that  hold  them,  in  the 
same  manner  they  were  obtained ;  although  ordinary 
and  vulgar  power  may,  in  human  affairs,  be  lost  as  ifc 
has  been  won ;  yet  it  is  the  glorious  prerogative  of  the 
empire  of  knowledge,  that  what  it  gains  it  never  loses* 
On  the  contrary,  it  increases  by  the  multiple  of  its 
own  power ;  all  its  ends  become  means ;  all  its  attain- 
ments, helps  to  new  conquests.  Its  whole  abundant 
harvest  is  but  so  much  seed  wheat,  and  nothing  has 
limited,  and  nothing  can  limit,  the  amount  of  ultimate 
product. 

Under  the  influence  of  this  rapidly  increasing  know* 
ledge,  the  people  have  begun,  in  all  forms  of  govern- 
ment, to  think,  and  to  reason,  on  affairs  of  state.  Re- 
garding government  as  an  institution  for  the  public 
good,  they  demand  a  knowledge  of  its  operations,  and 
a  participation  in  its  exercise.  A  call  for  the  repre- 
sentative system,  wherever  it  is  not  enjoyed,  and  where 
there  is  already  intelligence  enough  to  estimate  its 
value,  is  perseveringly  made.     Where  men  may  speak 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT,  SI 

out,  they  demand  it;  where  the  bayonet  is  at  their 
throats,  they  pray  for  it. 

When  Louis  the  Fourteenth  said,  "  I  am  the  State," 
he  expressed  the  essence  of  the  doctrine  of  unlimited 
power.  By  the  rules  of  that  system,  the  people  are 
disconnected  from  the  state  ;  they  are  its  subjects,  it 
is  their  lord.  These  ideas,  founded  in  the  love  of 
power,  and  long  supported  by  the  excess  and  the  abuse 
of  it,  are  yielding,  in  our  age,  to  other  opinions  ;  and 
the  civilized  world  seems  at  last  to  be  proceeding  to 
the  conviction  of  that  fundamental  and  manifest  truth, 
that  the  powers  of  government  are  but  a  trust,  and 
that  they  cannot  be  lawfully  exercised  but  for  ths 
good  of  the  community.  As  knowledge  is  more  and 
more  extended,  this  conviction  becomes  more  and 
more  general.  Knowledge,  in  truth,  is  the  great  sun 
in  the  firmament.  Life  and  power  are  scattered  with 
ail  its  beams.  The  prayer  of  the  Grecian  champion, 
when  enveloped  in  unnatural  clouds  and  darkness,  is 
the  appropriate  political  supplication  for  the  people  of 
every  country  not  yet  blessed  with  free  institutions  :  — 
"  Dispel  this  cloud,  the  light  of  heaven  restore, 
Give  me  to  see,  —  and  Ajax  asks  no  more." 

We  may  hope  that  the-  growing  influence  of  en- 
lightened sentiment  will  promote  the  permanent  peace 
of  the  world.  Wars  to  maintain  family  alliances,  to 
uphold  or  to  cast  down  dynasties,  and  to  regulate  suc- 
cessions to  thrones,  which  have  occupied  so  much 
room  in  the  history  of  modern  times,  if  not  less  likely 
to  happen  at  all,  will  be  less  likely  to  become  general 
and  involve  many  nations,  as  the  great  principle  shall 
be  more  and  more  established,  that  the  interest  of  the 
world  is  peace,  and  its  first  great  statute,  that  every 
nation  possesses  the  power  of  establishing  a  govern- 


82  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

ment  for  itseK.  But  public  opinion  lias  attained  also 
an  influence  over  governments  which  do  not  admit  the 
popular  principle  into  their  organization.  A  neces- 
sary respect  for  the  judgment  of  the  world  operates, 
in  some  measure,  as  a  control  over  the  most  unlimited 
forms  of  authority.  It  is  owing,  perhaps,  to  this 
truth,  that  the  interesting  struggle  of  the  Greeks  has 
been  suffered  to  go  on  so  long,  without  a  direct  inter- 
ference, either  to  wrest  that  country  from  its  present 
masters,  or  to  execute  the  system  of  pacification  by 
force ;  and,  with  united  strength,  lay  the  neck  of 
Christian  and  civilized  Greek  at  the  foot  of  the  bar- 
barian Turk.  Let  us  thank  God  that  we  live  in  an 
age  when  something  has  influence  besides  the  bayonet, 
and  when  the  sternest  authority  does  not  venture  to 
encounter  the  scorching  power  of  public  reproach. 
Any  attempt  of  the  kind  I  have  mentioned  should  be 
met  by  one  universal  burst  of  indignation  ;  the  air  of 
the  civilized  world  ought  to  be  made  too  warm  to  be 
comfortably  breathed  by  any  one  who  would  hazard  it. 
It  is,  indeed,  a  touching  reflection,  that,  while,  in 
the  fulness  of  our  country's  happiness,  we  rear  this 
monument  to  her  honor,  we  look  for  instruction  in  our 
undertaking  to  a  country  which  is  now  in  fearful  con- 
test, not  for  works  of  art  or  memorials  of  glory,  but 
for  her  own  existence.  Let  her  be  assured,  that  she 
is  not  forgotten  in  the  world ;  that  her  efforts  are  ap^ 
plauded,  and  that  constant  prayers  ascend  for  her 
success.  And  let  us  cherish  a  confident  hope  for  her 
final  triumph.  If  the  true  spark  of  religious  and  civil 
liberty  be  kindled,  it  will  burn.  Human  agency  can- 
not extinguish  it.  Like  the  earth's  central  fire,  it 
may  be  smothered  for  a  time  ;  the  ocean  may  over- 
whelm it ;  mountains  may  press  it  down ;  but  its  in- 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  33 

herent  and  unconquerable  force  will  heave  both  the 
ocean  and  the  land,  and  at  some  time  or  other,  in  some 
place  or  other,  the  volcano  will  break  out  and  flame 
up  to  heaven. 

Among  the  great  events  of  the  half-century,  we 
must  reckon,  certainly,  the  revolution  of  South  Amer- 
ica ;  and  we  are  not  likely  to  overrate  the  importance 
of  that  revolution,  either  to  the  people  of  the  country 
itself  or  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  The  late  Spanish 
colonies,  now  independent  states,  under  circumstances 
less  favorable,  doubtless,  than  attended  our  own  revo- 
lution, have  yet  successfully  commenced  their  national 
existence.  They  have  accomplished  the  great  object 
of  establishing  their  independence ;  they  are  known 
and  acknowledged  in  the  world ;  and  although  in  re- 
gard to  their  systems  of  government,  their  sentiments 
on  religious  toleration,  and  their  provision  for  public 
instruction,  they  may  have  yet  much  to  learn,  it  must 
be  admitted  that  they  have  risen  to  the  condition  of 
settled  and  established  states  more  rapidly  than  could 
have  been  reasonably  anticipated.  They  already  fur- 
nish an  exhilarating  example  of  the  difference  between 
free  governments  and  despotic  misrule.  Their  com- 
merce, at  this  moment,  creates  a  new  activity  in  all 
the  great  marts  of  the  world.  They  show  themselves 
able,  by  an  exchange  of  commodities,  to  bear  a  useful 
part  in  the  intercourse  of  nations. 

A  new  spirit  of  enterprise  and  industry  begins  to 
prevail;  all  the  great  interests  of  society  receive  a 
salutary  impulse ;  and  the  progress  of  information  not 
only  testifies  to  an  improved  condition,  but  itself  con- 
stitutes the  highest  and  most  essential  improvement. 

When  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  was  fought,  the 
existence  of  South  America  was  scarcely  felt  in  the 


84  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

civilized  world.  The  thirteen  little  colonies  of  Nortb 
America  habitually  called  themselves  the  "continent." 
Borne  down  by  colonial  subjugation,  monopoly,  and 
bigotry,  these  vast  regions  of  the  South  were  hardly 
visible  above  the  horizon.  But  in  our  day  there  has 
been,  as  it  were,  a  new  creation.  The  southern  hemi- 
sphere emerges  from  the  sea.  Its  lofty  mountains  be- 
gin to  lift  themselves  into  the  light  of  heaven;  its 
broad  and  fertile  plains  stretch  out,  in  beauty,  to  the 
eye  of  civilized  man,  and  at  the  mighty  bidding  of  the 
voice  of  political  liberty  the  waters  of  darkness  retire. 

And  now,  let  us  indulge  an  honest  exultation  in  the 
conviction  of  the  benefit  which  the  example  of  our 
country  has  produced,  and  is  likely  to  produce,  on  hu- 
man freedom  and  human  happiness.  Let  us  endeavor 
to  comprehend  in  all  its  magnitude,  and  to  feel  in  all 
its  importance,  the  part  assigned  to  us  in  the  great 
drama  af  human  affairs.  We  are  placed  at  the  head 
of  the  system  of  representative  and  popular  govern- 
ments. Thus  far  our  example  shows  that  such  govern- 
ments are  compatible,  not  only  with  respectability  and 
power,  but  with  repose,  with  peace,  with  security  of 
personal  rights,  with  good  laws,  and  a  just  adminis- 
tration. 

We  are  not  propagandists.  Wherever  other  sys- 
tems are  preferred,  either  as  being  thought  better  in 
themselves,  or  as  better  suited  to  existing  conditions, 
we  leave  the  preference  to  be  enjoyed.  Our  history 
hitherto  proves,  however,  that  the  popular  form  ia 
practicable,  and  that  with  wisdom  and  knowledge  men 
may  govern  themselves ;  and  the  duty  incumbent  on 
us  is  to  preserve  the  consistency  of  this  cheering  ex« 
ample,  and  take  care  that  nothing  may  weaken  its 
authority  with  the  world.     If,  in  our  case,  the  repre^ 


I 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT,  35 

sentative  system  ultimately  fail,  popular  governments 
must  be  pronounced  impossible.  No  combination  of 
circumstances  more  favorable  to  the  experiment  can 
ever  be  expected  to  occur.  The  last  hopes  of  man- 
kind, therefore,  rest  with  us ;  and  if  it  should  be  pro- 
claimed, that  our  example  had  become  an  argument 
against  the  experiment,  the  knell  of  popular  liberty 
would  be  sounded  throughout  the  earth. 

These  are  excitements  to  duty ;  but  they  are  not 
suggestions  of  doubt.  Our  history  and  our  condition, 
all  that  is  gone  before  us,  and  all  that  surrounds  us. 
Authorize  the  belief,  that  popular  governments,  though 
subject  to  occasional  variations,  in  form  perhaps  not 
always  for  the  better,  may  yet,  in  their  general  char- 
acter, be  as  durable  and  permanent  as  other  systems. 
We  know,  indeed,  that  in  our  country  any  other  is 
impossible.  The  principle  of  free  governments  adheres 
to  the  American  soil.  It  is  bedded  in  it,  immovable 
as  its  mountains. 

And  let  the  sacred  obligations  which  have  devolved 
on  this  generation,  and  on  us,  sink  deep  into  our 
hearts.  Those  who  established  our  liberty  and  our 
government  are  daily  dropping  from  among  us.  The 
great  trust  now  descends  to  new  hands.  Let  us  apply 
ourselves  to  that  which  is  presented  to  us,  as  our  ap- 
propriate object.  We  can  win  no  laurels  in  a  war 
for  independence.  Earlier  and  worthier  hands  have 
gathered  them  all.  Nor  are  there  places  for  us  by  the 
side  of  Solon,  and  Alfred,  and  other  founders  of  states. 
Our  fathers  have  filled  them.  But  there  remains  to 
us  a  great  duty  of  defence  and  preservation  ;  and  there 
is  opened  to  us,  also,  a  noble  pursuit,  to  which  the 
spirit  of  the  times  strongly  invites  us.  Our  proper 
business  is  improvement.     Let  our  age  be  the  age  of 


36  DANIEL   WEBSTER. 

improvement.  In  a  day  of  peace,  let  us  advance  the 
arts  of  peace  and  the  works  of  peace.  Let  us  develop 
the  resources  of  our  land,  call  forth  its  powers,  build 
up  its  institutions,  promote  all  its  great  interests,  and 
see  whether  we  also,  in  our  day  and  generation,  may 
not  perform  something  worthy  to  be  remembered. 
Let  us  cultivate  a  true  spirit  of  union  and  harmony. 
In  pursuing  the  great  objects  which  our  condition 
points  out  to  us,  let  us  act  under  a  settled  conviction, 
and  an  habitual  feeling,  that  these  twenty-four  States 
are  one  country.  Let  our  conceptions  be  enlarged  to 
the  circle  of  our  duties.  Let  us  extend  our  ideas  over 
the  whole  of  the  vast  field  in  which  we  are  called  to 
act.     Let  our  object  be,  OUR  country,  our  whole 

COUNTRY,  AND  NOTHING  BUT  OUR  COUNTRY.   And, 

by  the  blessing  of  God,  may  that  country  itself  be- 
come a  vast  and  splendid  monument,  not  of  oppression 
and  terror,  but  of  Wisdom,  of  Peace,  and  of  Liberty, 
upon  which  the  world  may  gaze  with  admiration  for- 
Bverl 


COLLEGE    ENTRANCE    REQUIREMENTS 

1910-1912. 


The  Numbers  in  parentheses  refer  to  the  Riverside  Literature  Series. 


FOR    READING,    1910-1911 

I  (two  to  be  selected).    Shakespeare's  As  You  Like  It  (93)  ;  Henry  V  (163) ; 

Julius  Caesar  (67) ;  Merchant  of  Venice  (55) ;  Twelfth  Night  (149) 

II  (one  to  be  selected).    Addison's   Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  Papers  (60,  61); 

Bacon's  Essays  (177);  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress,  Part  1(109);  Frank- 
lin's Autobiography  (19,  20). 

III  (one  to  be  selected),  Chaucer's  Prologue  (135);  Goldsmith's  Deserted 
Village  (68) ;  *Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  (First  Series)  Books  II  and  III ; 
Pope's  Rape  of  the  Lock  (147) ;  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene  Selections  (160). 

IV  (two  to  be  selected).  *Blackmore's  Lorna  Doone  ;  Dickens's  Tale  of  Two 
Cities  (161);  Eliot's  Silas  Marner  (83);  Mrs.  Gaskell's  Cranford;  Gold- 
smith's Vicar  of  Wakefield  (78);  Hawthorne's  House  of  the  Seven  Gables 
(91);  Scott's  Ivanhoe  (86);  Scott's  Quentin  Durward  (165);  Thackeray's 
Henry  Esmond  (140). 

V  (two  to  be  selected).  Carlyle's  Heroes  and  Hero- Worship  (166)  ;  DeQumcey's 

Joan  of  Arc,  and  the  English  Mail-Coach  (164);  Emerson's  Essays  (selected) 
(171,  172);  Irving's  Sketch  Book,  selected  Essays  (51,  52);  Lamb's  Essays 
of  Elia,  selected  (170) ;  Ruskin's  Sesame  and  Lilies  (142). 

VI  (two  to  be  selected).  Arnold's  Sohrab  and  Rustum  (132) ;  Browning's 
Selected  Poems  (115);  Byron's  Mazeppa,  and  Prisoner  of  Chillon  (128); 
Coleridge's  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  (80) ;  Longfellow's  Courtship  of 
Miles  Standish  (2) ;  Lowell's  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal  (30);  Macaulay's  Lays 
of  Ancient  Rome  (45) ;  *Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  (First  Series),  Book  IV; 
Poe's  Poems  (119);  Scott's  Lady  of  the  Lake  (53);  Tennyson's  Gareth  and 
Lynette,  Lancelot  and  Elaine,  and  The  Passing  of  Arthur  (152). 

FOR  READING,  1912 
The  same  literature  as  for  1909-1911  with  the  following  exceptions  :  — 
In  Group  V,  Carlyle's  "The  Hero  as  Poet,"  "  The  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters," 
and  "The  Hero  as  King  "  (166)  are  substituted  for  Heroes  and  Hero  Wor- 
ship, complete.  In  Group  VI,  Tennyson's  Princess  (i  11)  is  substituted  for 
Gareth  and  Lynette,  etc.  (156)  which  is,  as  above,  placed  on  the  list  "  for  care- 
ful study." 

FOR    STUDY,     1909-1911 
Burke's  Speech  on  Conciliation  with  America  (100)  or  Washington's  Farewell- 
Address  (24),  and  Webster's  First  Bunker  Hill  Oration  (56) ;  Macaulay's 
Life  of  Johnson  (102)  or  Carlyle's   Essay  on   Burns  (105);  Milton's  Minor 
Poems  (72);  Shakespeare's  Macbeth  (106). 

FOR  STUDY,  1913 
In  this  group,  Tennyson's  Gareth  and  Lynette,  Lancelot  and   Elaine,  and  The 
Passing  of  Arthur  (156)  are  added  as  an  alternative  for  Milton's  Minor  Poems 
(72).     The  other  literature  is  the  same  as  for  1910-1911. 

*  Not  published  in  the  Riverside  Literature  Series. 


THE  WEBSTER-COOLEY  TEXT 
BOOKS  IN  ENGLISH 


WEBSTER-COOLEY  LANGUAGE  SERIES 

The  four  following  titles  comprise  a  full  treatment  of  the 
subjects  of  language,  grammar,  and  composition,  arranged  to 
provide  a  book  for  a  grade  :  — 
Language    Lessons  from    Literature.     Book   I.    By   Alice 

WooDWORTH  CooLEY,  Assistant  Professor  in  Department 

of  Education,  University  of   North  Dakota,  and   recently 

Supervisor  of  Primary  Instruction  in  the  Public  Schools  of 

Minneapolis.    i2mo,  196  pages,  45  cents, «<?/. 
Language   Lessons  from   Literature.     Book   II.     By  Alice 

WooDWORTH  CooLEY.    i2mo,  390  pages,  6s  cents,  ne/.    In 

two  parts,  each,  i2mo,  45  cents,  nei. 
The  Elements  of  English  Grammar.     By  W.  F.  WEBSTER, 

Principal  of  the  East  High  School,  Minneapolis,  Minn.   223 

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W.  CooLEY  and  W.  F.  Webster.     i2mo,  270  pages,  45 

cents,  neit. 
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Alice  Woodworth  Cooley  and  W.  F.  Webster.   i2mo, 

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ume.  By  Alice  W.  Cooley.    i  2mo,  395  pages,  60  cents,  nef- 

The  Elements  of  Grammar  and  Composition.  By  W.  F- 
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WEBSTER'S  ENGLISH 

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